Edoc'sil
by wildskysong
Summary: SEQUEL TO ELDUNARI. Following the devastation of the last battle, the Varden tries to pick up the pieces as bitter enmity fractures the ranks. All are keeping secrets, some more deadly than others. And where is the Vault of Souls?
1. Prologue

**Hey friends! Well, beore I go away for two weeks, I wanted to post the start of Edoc'sil. :D **

**Here it is! It's short, yes, and a little randome, but hey, you guys don't mind, do ya? ;) **

**It's unbeta'd b/c my flight leaves in an hour and I have to be at the airport _now. _**

**Bye guys! Enjoy the prologue!**

**WARNING: This is a sequel to my story Eldunari. READ THAT ONE FIRST, PLEASE. YOU'LL BE CONFUSED IF YOU DON'T!**

**Disclaimer- Nope, still not mine. **

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"Where are you going?"

"On." -Xavier and the Proctor, _Please Come Down with Me_

Prologue: The Traveler

_Sunlight, garish against the snow, bombarded the lone traveler as he walked, causing him to screw his eyes shut against the light and rely on his hearing to navigate. That in itself was not difficult; he was walking across a great stretch of open plain, and there was nothing to hider his progress or trip his feet. _

_At times the traveler wished for a companion, because he had been walking alone for weeks and he missed the voices of others, the sight of a friend or a lover, the feeling of protection that came with companionship. But he was an elf, and elves did not say such things. They bowed their heads and continued on. _

_Overhead the sun was blinded but cold, as the land was in the throes of winter. The cities, mere fledglings of what they would become, lay far to the west, past the great Hadrac desert, split by rivers and streams and lakes. _

_He was traveling to the end of the world. _

_There was no reason for doing so, in his mind. He did not consciously make the decision to leave his family behind, to walk and walk towards the sunrise without end. One night, after dreaming of a dragon made of fire and of a rock that had fallen from the sky, he had simply stood, gathered meager supplies, and walked out of Du Weldenvarden and into the world. _

There has to be an end. _He told himself, his feet freezing as they sank into the pristine, radiant snow with every step. Of course there was an end. The world did not go on forever—at some point it must drop, stop, and cease to exist. _

_What he was searching for, he did not know. At night vague images of coal-bright eyes and plummeting rocks filled his dreams, driving him to keep walking _on_ and so he did. He discovered quickly that he did not tire easily or hunger—he slept once every five days and had not eaten since passing the fledgling city of Herdath over three moons ago._

_It was magic, then, that pushed him on, it was the call of the arcane. _

Of the gods? _He wondered, once or twice, briefly, before pushing the thought away from him. As a rule, elves did not believe in the existence of a higher power—no god would go to the trouble of making all the creatures in Alagaesia and then let them tear themselves apart. _

_The elf had only been a baby during the Dragon War, but he had heard enough stories, seen enough grieving, shattered families, to understand that no god would allow war to happen to its people. _

_But still, this push, this relentlessness that drove him further and further east, was maddening. So far there had been nothing but flatland, great plains that rippled white and blue in the sunlight, occasionally cleaved in half by rivers. The Beors had ended long ago, and no other mountain ranges appeared on any horizon. _

_There was nothing, but at the same time…_

_At the same time there was everything. _

_The air was free, untainted, unbreathed by elves, dwarves, and dragons. The birds and the animals, the foxes, the wolves, ran up to him, sniffing him, fluttering around him, because they did not know that elves brought fire and blood into the forests, that war followed the beings of Alagaesia like a storm cloud. _

_It was peaceful, serene. And he, the lone traveler, loved it. _

_He missed his family, yes, and his friends, but the distance between them yawned and his solitude was comforting. It was safe and free, and, for the first time, he did not look at the horizon behind him and wonder what his wife was doing at that moment._

_There was just the white in front of him, leading him on. _

_Squaring his shoulders, he followed. _


	2. Chapter One: Ice

**Hi guys! I'm back! I spent two weeks on vacation- very relaxing! So I have three other chapters already written (plus the epilogue, lol) but I'll post them each a week apart. Hopefully, this will help me settle into a rhythm so I can get this done quicker. :D**

**Okay, so we're ready to dive in! I know a lot of you have plenty of questions concerning the traveler mentioned in the prologue and many of you have speculated on his identity. He is not Faolin, Glenwing, Eragon, Brom, nor any other character introduced so far. In fact, he is several thousand years older than the start of the series. He is about as old as the Dragon Riders, so what, six, seven thousand years old? In his time, the humans haven't even arrived in Alagaesia yet! **

**We start off with Roran, then Murtagh, Arya, and back to Roran. Cool? :D Enjoy!**

**By the way, has anyone else read the Book IV chapter in Brisingr yet? King of cats? Wth? **

**Dedicated to my friends, who made my vacation wonderful!**

**Much thanks to the lovely chupacabrita and the stunning Arya Shadeslayer!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle, its characters, locations, or events. However, at this point, most of what you read is of my invention- if you wish to borrow something, just ask!**

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"Thou art all ice. Thy heart freezes." —William Shakespeare

Chapter One: Ice

Dawn came slowly for Roran. It always did, nowadays. Nights were long, torturous things, filled with broken dreams and promises and dead men that laughed as their faces, blue and ivory in the moonlight, were peeled away by crawling insects.

This dawn was no different. He lay in his cot, breathing, in-out, in-out, his eyes glazed as the light splintered across them, jarring him away from his restless half-sleep where his nightmares walked and bared their teeth.

And he lay still as the light, growing and growing, banished the long shadows in his room, cast the weak white-yellow glow over his belongings; his hammer, his maps, his sword.

The light chased away the night, but it did not chase away the pain, and Roran felt it with every sluggish movement he made, cracking in his bones, slushing in his blood. It was always there, an ever-present ache, grief so strong that it nearly floored him. He imagined that this must be what Murtagh felt like, waking up with a lightning wound on his chest, limping down the street, every step sending fire up his body.

But Murtagh couldn't possibly comprehend the grief and sorrow that Roran felt. Murtagh was impassive, his face as smooth and unchanging as stone. He did everything with that face, never once showed a spasm of pain or sadness or love in his blue eyes.

And Roran hated him for it.

He hated Murtagh, or at least felt a strong, strong sense of dislike towards him, for moving, for working, for breathing without pain.

He hated Murtagh for getting up, for learning to walk again, for fighting and speaking and instructing as though he bore no wounds from his battle.

Most of all, he hated Murtagh for living.

He hated Murtagh because, two months ago, the red Rider had challenged Galbatorix. Two months ago Galbatorix had thrown Murtagh from the back of his monster Shruikan. Two months ago, the mad King sent a bolt of lightning to chase the Rider's heart.

And two months ago, Eragon Shadeslayer, the loving, caring, brave, reckless fool, had grown wings of flame and surged across the battlefield, drawing the lightning from his half-brother's body and then, as a result, taking another through his heart, plunging into the raging Jiet River below him, vanishing into the foam, almost as if he never existed.

Murtagh lived and Eragon died and _it was not fair. _

The injustice seethed inside Roran, burned him, thrashed around inside him and made him go taut and tense every time the blue-eyed son of a monster limped past. He wanted to kill, to fight, to smash and pulverize with his hammer (to cry) but he was not allowed—the Varden needed unity and the aid of the Rider clan, and killing the leader of that clan would most definitely destroy any semblance of friendship that the two groups had.

Roran breathed, trying to center himself, trying to focus. His hate (strong dislike, he told himself) of Murtagh was not helping the Varden—already there were whispers that the general and the Rider were not getting along, that they could not, or would not, work together. And such lack of cooperation was damaging, severely damaging. Already the general could feel the balance of power in the Varden begin to shift, fracture.

There were those who supported him, Roran, because they had been with him for many battles and they knew him, respected him. They understood his pain—Eragon had been his brother, even if blood said he was a cousin. Eragon had married him, had given him a way to stay in some form of contact with his wife at all times. Eragon was Eragon; he had always been there, the younger brother, the one needing and giving protection, and now he was dead and Roran couldn't do a damn thing about it. So many in the Varden supported him: they felt his pain, saw it etched into his face. They grieved with him because they had fought with him.

But there were others, though blessedly a small amount, of people in the Varden who looked to Murtagh. They had not seen him in the Burning Plains, striking down Hrothgar the Dwarf King, tearing at Eragon with the ferocity of a wild animal. They had only seen him fall out of the sky and lay waste to the Painless Ones. And then they had seen him rise up and fight Galbatorix one-on-one, man-to-man, without magic to aid him or give him an advantage.

To these people, Murtagh was a hero. He had been prepared to die, and by some trick of fate he had not.

So they rallied around him, called him Stormbreaker, and admired his bearing, the way he handled himself and his Riders. And they hissed at those who called Murtagh a traitor, the spawn of a demon.

The Varden was splintering as a result.

Dressing, Roran glared out at the street. It was lit but nearly deserted, and great chunks were torn out of it, ripped up by mighty talons. Murtagh was currently housed at the end, along with a few of his fellow Riders, and the street and its population had taken much roaring and clawing and accidental tail swiping. As a result, the street resembled the battlefield outside and most of the buildings were abandoned. Murtagh and a few other captains lived down the street, but everyone else had fled to quieter lodgings.

Which left Roran to deal with the sounds of dragons mostly by himself. Fortunately, all the Riders were out—he could see them wheeling in the sky above, colorful blurs that rolled and dove, and his street was quiet.

Well, sort of quiet. Perhaps smelling his human companion, the massive black stallion Trumpet bugled loudly, stamping his impressive hooves as he danced eagerly.

Sighing, Roran approached the stable behind his house and reached out a hand to the former Imperial warhorse. Trumpet nudged him happily, snorting.

_More friendly than a dog. _The general thought wryly, and with a touch of irony. Trumpet was affectionate towards his rider, but everyone else was in constant danger of getting bitten, stomped on, or shoved by the huge animal. He still could not be ridden, as he had taken a sword slash to the side in the Battle of the Falling, as it was now called. His glossy black coat shone, though, and Trumpet was well on his way to recovery.

Once the horse was fed and quieted Roran made his way down the street and out into the central flow of movement. It was midmorning, which meant that the Varden in its entirety was up and about, collecting their daily rations, keeping the city fortified, training.

Moving into the mob of people, Roran nodded greetings to whoever shouted "Stronghammer!" and waved enthusiastically.

After winding his way through the masses, he found himself near the keep, fortunately. He needed to talk to Lady Nasuada; the meat was running low and he hoped to take out a foraging party.

His heart sank when he noticed a large crimson dragon in the courtyard.

_Damn. _He thought. _The murderer is here. _

Talking with Murtagh was not going to improve his day. At all. In fact, it might just push him to the point where he punched the traitor in the nose and then bashed his head in with his hammer.

_How can Nasuada even let him stay here? _He raged silently, stalking into the keep and beginning to climb the stairs. _He betrayed the Varden, killed the Dwarf King, did his damndest to give Eragon over to Galbatorix, and now she's just letting him stay here, where he could kill all of us with one flick of his hand. _

His mood darkened by anger and lack of sleep, Roran prowled into the meeting room and fought the urge to yell at the sight.

Murtagh was bent over Nasuada's desk, his long fingers probing the map, murmuring to her, and both were serious but not combative.

Growling in his head, Roran decided to fix that. His hand spasmed around his hammer and he cleared his throat, making his presence known.

The leader of the Varden was the first to look up, her dark eyes emotionless. "Roran." She said in greeting.

Murtagh straitened, leaning against the table, his scarred sword propped up against his leg, and surveyed Roran silently.

He was not a talkative man, Murtagh. It was one of the things that set the hairs on the back of Roran's neck tingling. The red Rider did not speak much at all, even to the members of his clan, preferring instead to speak with his thoughts or nod and signals.

Icy blue eyes met Roran's brown, cool, controlled. The man was a stone, which only added to Roran's hatred. He rarely showed emotion, and it was _irritating. _He was worse than the elves.

Murtagh bent his body slightly, bowing a little. "General." He said coolly. He stood crookedly, all his weight on his left leg because lightning ruined his right.

"Stormbreaker." Roran replied, equally as cool, noting with a sort of savage pleasure the slight flicker of irritation that passed through the blue eyes. He absolutely refused to call Murtagh by his 'title,' which was, according to the rather displeased elves, Shur'tugal-ebrithil, or, Master Rider, which should have been Eragon's title.

"Stronghammer." Murtagh said with just enough disdain that Roran stiffened, his spine hard and straight.

Lady Nasuada sighed and rubbed her forehead tiredly.

"What, Roran?" She asked. She looked exhausted as well, and Roran did not envy her. She was currently running the entire Varden, negotiating the loaning of elvish warriors with Islanzadí, and trying to recruit anyone and everyone who would be willing to fight to cope with the devastating loses.

After the Battle of the Falling and its disastrous loss, the Varden had not only lost its symbol of freedom, it had lost nearly four thousand of its soldiers, bringing the numbers down dangerously low.

Fortunately, the tale of how Galbatorix had retreated bolstered confidence, and people from all over the center of Alagaesia rushed to Belatona, replenishing the ranks, offering weapons and food.

Haggardly, Nasuada stood and walked to place herself in between Murtagh and Roran. "Roran, I assume you are here to talk to me about the meat issue?"

The general nodded shortly, still glaring at Murtagh.

"Murtagh has already solved it." She said, flicking her hand in the Rider's direction. "We have identified outposts for the Empire's soldiers which effectively surround us—it is too dangerous to send out foraging parties."

"We need to eat." Roran pointed out, his glare hardening. "We cannot survive off of grain all winter. It is going to be a long one."

"Agreed." Murtagh broke in smoothly. "Leona Lake is the only option available. We will have to fish for meat."

"All the fish are too deep for fishermen by now." The general argued. "We won't be able to reach them."

"The dragons can." The Rider countered. "They can dive deeper than any human fishing pole, and catch the bigger fish as well."

Nasuada nodded. "I have already agreed to this."

_Not that it makes much difference. _Roran muttered to himself. _He'll do as he pleases anyway. _Murtagh refused to swear fealty to the Varden—he claimed that the Riders were independent and made their own decisions. If they wanted too, all the dragons could simply fly away, leaving the Varden at the mercy of the King and his Halfling demons.

"Very well." Roran said, gritting his teeth.

Murtagh nodded, satisfied, and then offered a bow to Nasuada, limping for the door.

"Wait." Said the lady of the Varden.

Murtagh stopped a few feet from Roran, and the general silently cursed; even limping the Rider was taller.

They eyed each other.

Nasuada once again came to stand in between them. "This," she said, motioning to both of them. "Needs to _stop_."

Neither man said a word.

"You two are acting like squabbling children." She snapped. "I understand that you have problems with each other, but your hostility is splintering the Varden."

Defiant, Roran lifted his chin. "I have not been openly hostile." He snorted.

"Nor have I." Murtagh added, apathetic.

"You refuse to work together. You glare whenever you are in the same room. Your hands tighten on your weapons every time the other moves. And it needs to stop. So, Roran, since you at least are under my authority, I order you to explain the reasons for your hostility."

The bearded general did not answer.

"Roran," Nasauda said again, a hard note of warning creeping into her voice.

Muscles jumping in his jaw, Roran glared at the lady. "He is a traitor, Lady Nasuada. He betrayed the Varden, fought with Galbatorix, killed many of our allies and men, and he is responsible for Eragon's death."

And then Murtagh was in Roran's face. "I did _not_ ask Eragon to die for me." He hissed, and for the first time, Roran saw emotion in his deep blue eyes. "If I had known—"

"Known what?" Roran snapped, leaning in.

The Rider did not pull back. Instead he bared his teeth, his eyes shining like fire. "I am not a traitor by choice." He spat, switching topics. "I was forced into what I did."

"You were told to kill Hrothgar? You were told to rip at Eragon, told to kill the old Rider in Gil'ead?"

"I did _not_ kill Oromis." Murtagh resembled an animal with his teeth bared, his slightly pointed ears, and the feral light that gleamed in his eyes, and, in a detached way, Roran wondered if he should be frightened.

Sneering, Roran stepped closer. His anger, and his pain over the loss of his brother-cousin, boiled over. "You are a killer," he said, slowly and clearly. "A murderer. Tell me, how does it feel, being the reason your _brother_ is dead?"

For a moment, something wild flashed across Murtagh's face—it was hot and angry, with glittering red eyes and bared fangs, and a terrible heat rolled from the blue-red-eyed man, and a faint growling roar echoed—and then it was gone.

Murtagh's face twisted, his teeth glittering, his eyes angry, and then he smoothed out his features once more, becoming stiff and impassive once more.

Roran blinked, startled. He had seen something, something not-quite-human, stirring in Murtagh's face, a remnant of great rage, of great pain.

But it was a flicker, a shadow, and the bearded general was still possessed of the strong urge to punch the passivity off of the Rider's face.

His hands tightened, his knuckles, white, jumping.

Nasuada, sensing the tension, went stiff.

"Fine." She snapped, and her tone was angry. "Fine. Roran, Murtagh, get out." She motioned irritably towards the door. "_Out. _I will deal with the both of you later; at the moment I have too many problems to attend to and I do not have the energy to play peacemaker for _children." _The venom in her voice was clear, but Roran couldn't really muster up the remorse to apologize.

Bowing again, he left, his body rigid, and took the stairs three at a time, his jaw clenching, and his body seething.

He needed to get out.

That was why he wanted to go hunting—the Varden was low on meat, but also he needed release. Roran needed to kill something, to vent all his bad feelings, his anger, loss, rage, and purge it from him so he could focus, could do his job and free Alagaesia.

Half-blind with tense anger, he stalked towards the nearest horse and seized it, slinging himself onto its bare back and spurring the startled creature forward.

The horse was not Trumpet; it was smaller, thinner, but it was fast, and it got him where he needed to go.

The winter air was crisp, cold, and biting, and outside the city walls, the scents of fire were completely gone, leaving only the frigid breathing of the wind.

Dismounting, Roran breathed, struggling to control himself. He was alone, surrounded by trees with jagged branches, the city far enough away that no one would hear him.

In-out. In-out. The wind rattled the trees and his bones, clacking them together, dissonant and loud in his ears. The horse stamped, tried to peel the bark of a nearby tree.

Ice glittered on every surface; it had not snowed yet, but the ice encased everything.

And in the sky, the dragons wheeled, now joined by a red one, and suddenly, it was too much.

Blindly, Roran drew his hammer and brought it down on the nearest tree.

A howl, something between a sob of agony and a roar of rage, burst from his throat and clawed its way into the frozen forest, ripping through the air and crashing into tree trunks, breaking into a thousand pain-filled cries that screamed _Eragon is dead! _over and over.

His hammer fell again and again, pulverizing tree trunks, sending chips of bark hurtling through the air. All of his emotion, his heart, spilled out of him with each stroke, and he felt like he was crushing it underneath his hammer.

_Crunch—_Eragon and Garrow, alive, smiling, tilling the fields.

_Snap—_Garrow dead, face nearly burned off, his body impossibly damaged.

_Crack—_Katrina, eyes hollow, emaciated, recoiling from the sunlight as if it burned her.

_Crash—_Eragon, falling, fire streaming from his back, lighting in his chest.

Eragon—

Eragon—!

Everything swirled inside Roran, a maelstrom of emotion, hate-pain-anger-love-loss, crashing and colliding and smashing up his insides until he felt them leak from his heart like blood, drip out onto the snow, and stain the white crimson.

It hurt.

He hurt everywhere, all over, and he felt as though he had been smashed and battered and torn apart. He had been smothered, attacked, by swords and lies and too much death.

And Roran was tired of it. Here, now, in the frozen forest, the icy trees cracking under the force of his blows, he had had enough.

Confusion, borne of pain and awakening, blossomed in his gut. So much was wrong, and it hurt almost as much as Eragon's death. His hammer fell again and again, and later he realized that he was bleeding from small wounds where ice and bark had sliced his skin.

The cold seeped into his bones, and he felt them creak. With the cold came numbness—all his hot emotions were spilled, gone, destroyed by the cold.

Roran collapsed to the icy ground, spent.

He was hollow.

In the forest, he lay broken.

Every part of him screamed for release, for home. He was twenty years old, and he missed his father. He missed his mother, who died when he was only eight. He missed the farm, the feeling of the ground breaking under his hoe. He missed planting, tending to the crops, watching them spring into life and offer food to the growers.

He missed Katrina, who was far away, with life stirring in her belly. He wanted her, her fiery hair, her bright eyes, her smile, her courage, her determination. He wanted her child, his son or daughter, and he wanted to hold the life that was both he and Katrina in his arms.

Roran wanted Eragon. He wanted the elfin features, the brown eyes, the laughter, the bright intelligence.

At this point, it seemed that neither Katrina nor Eragon would be with him again any time soon. Katrina was safe, and Roran wanted her to stay that way. The battlefield was too dangerous for her and their child.

And Eragon was dead.

Hatred so strong that it nearly choked the general flared in his belly, hot, bitter, and he again heard the faint growling and saw two bright bits of coal hovering in the air.

Sickened, Roran curled in the frosty earth, trying to remember how to breathe through his anguish.

In. Out.

The air froze in his lungs, and he choked.

Too much.

It was all.

Too.

Damn.

Much.

Roran lay in the icy dirt for what felt like days, the wreckage of trees littering the ground around him. The raggedness in his heart was burning, chaffing. He couldn't breathe, but he didn't really try to.

He was surrounded by ice and he was ice—frozen, stuck, unable to go forward or backward, waiting for the first breath of spring to save him but not completely convinced that spring existed at all.

_Get up, fool. _Garrow said, and through ice-encrusted eyes Roran saw blue and ivory feet in the whitened grass. _Look at you. You're pathetic. _

"You're not real." Roran whispered, and glared up into the sunlight. "You're dead." He saw his father, dead, half-eaten by time, and then the bright light sliced through the man and he vanished, his worm-laden sneer lingering in front of the general's eyes.

_We're all dead, son. _Garrow, his mother, the villagers, his men, all their faces stared at him.

Hatred and defeat burning in Roran. Garrow was dead. Eragon was dead. At that moment, his hatred of Murtagh was forgotten, and all he hated was himself.

He hated himself, his ice, his inability to change anything. He was a failure, and it bit into his heart.

_I failed. _He thought, and he was standing, his hands numb from the cold, curled around his hammer. _I failed to protect my father, my brother. _

_I couldn't save them. _He made his way back through the forest, through the shattered trees, through the bits of himself. _But I will not fail to protect anyone ever again. _

The horse's nostrils flared, smelling blood, and Roran noticed that his knuckles were bleeding.

He didn't care.

The ride back to the city was short, filled with cold air and flashes of blue and ivory faces running nimbly alongside the horse, smiling, their hands like claws that tugged gently at his boots.

He rode hard until he reached the keep, and both he and the horse were panting. He didn't know why he came here, to the keep, the center of the world that was falling apart, but he dismounted anyway, brushed past the blue and ivory hands and smiles.

A young messenger waited, nervously fiddling with a heavy letter. "General Stronghammer." He stuttered shyly, offering the parchment, and slowly Roran accepted it, his mind still spinning brokenly, his chest still heaving.

On the front, written in the slightly clumsy yet still elegant handwriting of a woman who had recently learned to write, was his name.

The ring on his hand tingled, and Roran felt cold dread flood his body.

_My dearest Roran, _the letter began.

_I have decided to travel to Belatona to be with you. By the time you receive this letter I will have already left. I am taking a safe route, as the Varden is in control of the lands and seas on the way, and I will arrive before spring. _

_I understand that you do not want me with you, and that you are worried about my safety, and I will talk with you when I arrive, but you need to understand that I feel the same way. I cannot sleep knowing you are so far away, fighting for your life, with only other men and Eragon to protect you. _

_Don't be angry. _

_And don't try and send me back. I will not go. _

_I will arrive in three months or so. The route I am taking is slow, but it is safe. _

_Your faithful wife, _

_Katrina _

Horror, colder than the air, pierced his belly. Roran couldn't breath for the pain of it.

Somewhere, in his frozen mind, he realized that the world had shattered above his head.

Katrina was coming to Belatona. She was coming to the center of the resistance, to Galbatorix's target. She was coming to him, Roran, and here, she would not be safe. Their _child _would not be safe.

It was all Roran could do to remain standing and not fall to his knees.

Fear took root, breathing in his body, pumping his heart, working his lungs. All around him was ice, was terror.

Winter had settled in Alagaesia, and the cold wind brought Katrina to the slaughtering ground.

Garrow, his face distorted, smiled, his teeth gone. _You see, my boy? Your wife is coming. All will be well. _

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**Okay, one down, 40+ to go... I get the feeling that this will be considerably longer than Eldunari. I want to wrap up all the loose ends, so... yeah.**

**Next: Murtagh! **

**:D**

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	3. Chapter Two: Fire

**Hi! I apologize for the delay, friends, I do. Some things came up and I've been away for quite a while, and you can't upload chapters from an iPod Touch, so... yeah. **

**In lieu of an actual A/N, this is the second chapter of Edoc'sil, and thanks for the reviews! This is Murtagh's POV, and I kinda hate it. **

**Ah well. **

**To ShadowKissedKK, my dear friend, I'm sorry for not being able to finish your birthday present! As I said, I was called away from home by extenuating circumstances and as of yet have not been able to complete it! It will get done, though! It will!**

**Thanks, Arya Shadeslayer and chupacabrita! All hail the mighty betas!**

**Dedicated to my family, whom I love with all my heart. **

**Disclaimer- Not mine. Well, a good bit of it is. But the original stuff is CP's!**

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"Each of us bears his own Hell." - Virgil

Chapter Two: Fire

_Ice was everywhere, sheets of it glittering, smooth, hard, impenetrable. He stood on the crest of a hill, looking below him at the wide field of ice, and he blinked as he realized what it was._

_He was standing above a giant lake, a lake far bigger than any on the other side of the Hadrac. It was almost an ocean, it seemed. With magic he tried to scry the edges, peering through the eyes of birds, but no bird flew far enough to glimpse the ends, and the opposite shore was leagues away, at least three days of hard walking._

_This lake was as vast as a sea, and when, with considerable exertion, the traveler melted some of the ice away, he saw that the water was still and silver, the sky reflected perfectly in its waters._

_On the second day of walking, the elf also discovered a rather disconcerting power—the lake showed him the faces of his family in perfect detail, and all their faces were sad and lonely._

_It cut him like a knife, the lonliness._

_Did they miss him? His mate and his child, his family, did they mourn his loss? Did they wonder where he had gone?_

_Or did they, like all the elves, simply bow their heads and accept?_

_The traveler lifted his head, turning away from the reflections in the great lake. He looked at the stars and realized that he was standing still._

_Once again he felt a pull, a call deep in his soul._

_He closed his eyes and walked on, leaving his loved ones frozen in the water, sorrow in their eyes._

_He did not look back._

Murtagh came out of sleep slowly, blinking to awaken himself. He stretched, catlike, and simply lay on the bed, breathing, in-out, in-out.

He breathed and waited for the world to come hurtling down on his head.

And it did.

Everything that had happened to him in the past three months—escaping Uru'baen, finding a clan of hidden dragons, fighting Galbatorix, _Eragon_, leading the Riders—shattered over his head and nearly left him gasping.

_It's been two months. _He thought, his cheek pressed into the pillow. Two months since the Battle of the Falling, since lightning, since Eragon's death, since agony. As irrational as it was, the lead Rider could not help but half-expect Eragon to walk through the door, wet, tired, but _alive_. His body had never been found, and Murtagh still found himself clinging to the idea that Eragon was out there, somewhere, injured, lost, but alive.

His chest hurt, and Murtagh breathed, trying to center himself.

Eragon was dead. Eragon was gone.

In-out. In-out.

Standing was difficult, painful; harsh bursts of agony flared up and down the Rider's spine as he stood and stretched, despite the ragged burn on his chest. Peeling back his shirt he examined the still-healing wound. Fortunately, most of the skin that had been burned black had healed, leaving an area about the size of his hand on his chest shiny and pink, the skin stretched taught, glossy. It still throbbed and ached with most movement, but he could finally swing a sword again. His lips curled in pain as he prodded the wound, bringing memories rushing to his mind—

Galbatorix, screaming, his black sword weaving against the storm-laden sky—

The great blue Eldunarí, Wryda, dragon of Vrael, cracking open, the light inside spilling out—

Falling, falling, with a bolt of lighting smashing into his chest, tearing around in his insides—

Eragon—

Forcibly stamping out that particular train of thought, Murtagh covered his wound and limped stiffly to the washbasin, vigorously splashing his face, peering at himself in the rather warped mirror that hung loosely on the wall.

He looked tired. His face was pale, his eyes dulled. He wore purple bruises under his eyes and his hands shook slightly. He looked _old._

But then, pain and loss and exhaustion did that to a person.

Rolling his shoulders to help his leg, which had also been wounded in his run-in with magical lightning, he made the way back to his bed and rubbed the wound. It too was scarred, though considerably smaller, perhaps the size of a child's tightly closed fist. Eragon had arrived as his brother fell dying, flying on wings of fire, and the younger brother pulled the lightning from Murtagh's body, forcing it out of his leg, saving his life.

In saving Murtagh's life, Eragon lost his own.

The result was one dead Rider, one crippling injury, and a slew of bad feelings that seemed to affect every single sentient creature in the Varden, including Roran's monster of a horse.

Once he was suitably dressed for the day, the blue-eyed man took a deep breath and sighed heavily, instinctively knowing that this would be a very, very bad day.

And he was exhausted. Exhaustion was to be expected, of course; he had not slept through the night since Eragon's death. Murtagh was haunted by dreams, both of the battle and of snow, strangely.

He often dreamed of walking, which completely confused him—he could barely walk through the city, let alone leagues and leagues in the deep snow. And now he was dreaming of lakes that were also mirrors and faces that made his chest ache with unsaid words and sorrow. Was it destiny calling? Was it a vision of the future?

But the red Rider had no time for such things.

Pushing his thoughts aside, Murtagh stepped out the door of his current lodgings, a one-story house in the center of the city, where a wealthy merchant had once lived.

_Thorn?_

A roar from above answered, and Murtagh looked up—high above him, the red smudge that was his dragon circled lazily, watching everything below him like a hawk. _Murtagh! _The crimson dragon cried, entering a steep dive. _You're awake._

_Obviously._

Snorting, Thorn plunged from the sky, pulling tight circles as he did so, finally slowing his speed and landing in the wide street with a mighty crash, tearing up the cobblestones as he shook vigorously.

_Can you try to not cause destruction wherever you go? _Murtagh muttered, brushing bits of dust and rock off of his tunic. He winced as the harsh wind buffeted him; the grip of winter had descended on Alagaesia, though not as harshly as it did in the north. So far there had been a blessed lack of snow, but the clouds building overhead seemed to carry the threat.

_Nothing mixes better than a cripple and the snow. _The Rider thought irritably, anticipating the ice and snow that would cover the ground.

_You're not a cripple! _Thorn protested, his wide eyes bright.

Snorting, Murtagh used Zar'roc to limp to his dragon. _I can't _walk, _Thorn._

The crimson dragon paused, tilting his head. Admitting defeat he crouched down to allow his Rider to scramble up and settle in the saddle. Coiling, he prepared to fly.

_So what does the she-witch have for us to do today? _Murtagh asked dryly, hunkering down as Thorn, with a shove that ripped what remained of the street, took flight. Ever since Nasuada's angry dismissal three days ago, Murtagh had found himself operating underneath Angela. Since he found the she-witch witty and tolerable, he did what was asked of him without complaint, and a sort of tentative friendship was forming between the Rider and the witch.

Thorn snorted good-naturedly. _I haven't seen her yet. _He rumbled. _And she hasn't sent the werecat to find us, so for now, we have nothing to do. _Looping effortlessly, the vermillion dragon spat ire and roared, causing several of the beings below to flinch and glare in the direction of the sky.

For a moment Murtagh was tempted to summon the clan for more training. The former cave-dwelling dragons were still remembering how to fly after a century underground, but he saw them below, sleeping or eating or talking to the elves, and he decided to leave them be.

He loved his clan and most everyone in it, with the exception of Raltin and his near-silent dragon Talon, but they simply couldn't fill the holes left in his soul by those he had lost, and he simply had no energy to deal with them.

So he and Thorn flew in aimless circles, spinning around the sky.

_I don't understand. _Murtagh shouted at Eragon's memory, his heart aching with pain and anger and so much sorrow, fire in his chest, fire in his leg. _How could you leave me like this?_

As always, the dead brother offered no answer, only the memories of rushing, roaring water and a half-dreamed forest, awash with golden light.

Hopelessly angry, Murtagh glared down at the city below him, at the half-repaired holes in the mighty walls, at the houses, at the Burned District, where ash floated lazily in the breeze and Arya Shadeslayer lived, haunting the gray and black walls with a green dragon at her side.

After Eragon's sacrifice, the former elf princess had all but vanished, disappearing into the Burned District of Belatona, where a great fire had ravaged the homes and the markets, leaving only ash behind. She had only been seen a handful of times since the Battle of the Falling, her hair dark, her eyes chips of emeralds, the young dragon Faolin, who grew larger and larger every day, padding at her side.

Murtagh had made contact with her only once, two days after he had awoken, to invite her into his clan. She did not respond, and he had not tried again.

From his vantage point, looking down into the ashes and ruin, he spotted a flash of green, and through Thorn's raptor eyes, he saw Faolin, half-hidden under crumbling eaves, peering up at the circling red dragon with open curiosity.

Murtagh felt something inside of him, something that he had thought dead, stir. Later, he would regret the decision he was about to make. He would finger his new injuries and curse his stupidity. As it was, he (very cautiously) reached out with his mind and touched the dragonling.

For a second there was no reply, only emptiness, and then a wary, intelligent young mind prodded back.

_Hello, little one. _Murtagh said.

_Hi. _Thorn called, friendly and excited, as always. _I'm Thorn._

The voice that answered was older than it should have been, almost as worn with sorrow and world-weariness as Murtagh's. _I know. _Faolin said. _Arya told me about you. _Suspicion entered the dragon's thoughts and the Rider winced.

He still was not comfortable with others in his mind. Galbatorix had traumatized him too deeply, and it was unlikely that he would ever welcome mental contact. He was getting better, though. He no longer shut himself off, or panicked when another entered his thoughts unannounced.

_Ah. _Murtagh said, falling silent. The elf had, rightly so, probably told her heart-partner of his betrayal, of the blood he spilled, of the grief he had caused. It was only natural, after all. If Arya felt anything like Roran felt, then she blamed Murtagh for Eragon's death.

He didn't hold that against her. He blamed himself too.

Faolin said nothing else, and, taking the silence as a dismissal, Thorn and Murtagh flew away, aware of two small, bright eyes watching them.

_He should be flying. _Thorn said, unhappy. _Hatchlings need to learn to fly, to be dragons. He spends all his time in ash._

_It's not our place. _Murtagh reminded Thorn gently. _Arya refused to join our clan; we can do nothing._

Roaring, the scarlet dragon picked up speed, hurtling out of the city, plunging towards the wilderness, fire leaking from his jaws.

_It's not fair. _The dragon bellowed, and sorrow, wild and deep and fierce, tore through the link. _Why does Galbatorix do the things he does?_

And then they were falling, dropping at breathtaking speed, aiming for the broken, bare trees and the hard, icy ground.

Thorn landed with a crash that shattered ice, the ground breaking underneath his heavy claws. The roars echoed in the frozen wind, carried towards the Spine, haunting and inexplicably sad.

_Why? _Thorn repeated, twisting to look at his Rider, his vermillion eyes impossibly young.

Something in Murtagh's chest broke. _I don't know. _He murmured, sliding from Thorn's back. _I don't know, I'm sorry._

The forest, cold, frozen, was suddenly too hot—a thousand things crashed inside Murtagh, pain love loss anger sorrow betrayal—and there was the terrible light growing, swelling, forcing its way out of his burned, crushed chest.

He staggered forward, bent double in his grief—

His bad leg shuddered, slipped—

He crashed down—

Fire—

_Weak. _Snarled something hot. _You hurt too much._

Blinking, hurting, the red Rider searched above him, at the sky, alight with the sun, at the trees, bare, glittering in sheathes of ice. There was no one.

_Here. _And then the smell of smoke was in Murtagh's nose and he jerked, hissing in agony, and met a pair of eyes, glowing like embers, that hovered mere inches from his face. Against the glittering ice there was an outline, red and orange with fire, and a dragon twitched its tail and rustled wings.

_Who—? _Murtagh began, but he already knew. He had seen this creature before, snarling, fire in its eyes and teeth and claws, had seen it lay waste to men and fly across the sky to save his life.

_Get up. _The fire taunted. _Up, little human. You are giving up here, now, after everything that was done to ensure your survival?_

_Leave. _The Rider told the specter.

_Why?_

Thorn, whining softly in shared pain, swiped at the fiery outline with a claw. The coal-bright eyes focused on the youngling.

_Foolish hatchling. _The creature chided. _Do not fight me—I was there when your kind was born._

_Go away. _Thorn snarled, teeth long and glittering.

The fire snorted and glowed. _Never. _It said, and then it was gone, but the heat, the terrible, terrible heat, was there, was burning, and through the haze of emotion, Murtagh heard the thing whisper, intimately, its secret.

_I am you, now, Murtagh. _It said. _And you are me._

With a roar the Rider drew Zar'roc and slashed at the air, the scarred blade whistling sharply, but there was nothing to bite, nothing but anger and pain and so much sorrow the air seemed to choke. He closed his eyes briefly, burning, and again he saw the lake, impossibly huge, sprawled before him, and the fire's voice whispered _come_.

_Where? _Murtagh cried, and lurched to his feet, spinning, spinning, the ice and trees and sunlight blurring as Zar'roc wove a web of crimson steel against the trees.

There was no answer and Murtagh was left hot, prickling, his blood pounding and his wounds throbbing and Thorn snarling angrily, helplessly.

_We have to—_ The Rider thought, but something was wrong, was horribly horribly wrong, and he stumbled, the fire swelling, lancing up his leg.

_We have—_

_Have to—_

_To—_

Roaring in pain he slashed, branches shattering, and lightning crackled from his blade, and fire burned his heart and his soul and Thorn, unable to stand against the grief by himself, joined in, a terrible howl tearing itself from his throat, crimson fire flickering to life as the ice melted and the forest groaned and smoked.

_What're you doing? _Said a voice, and Faolin the dragonling was standing there, his head tilted, curiosity and a little fear spilling from him.

Both Murtagh and Thorn froze, fire and lightning lashing around them, and stared at the youngling.

_You're sad. _The dragonling edged closer, his wide eyes confused, sniffing, until he was merely inches from Murtagh, the sparkling emerald of his hide throwing light around the ice. At just over two months old, Faolin was as tall as Murtagh's shoulder, able to fly on his own. Within another few weeks he would be able to carry Arya, and soon after that he would go long distances.

_Should you be here? _The Rider asked, trying to reign in his angers, his pains. The fire inside him subsided somewhat, the snarling fading to a soft (though still present) hum.

Faolin cocked his head. _Arya is sleeping. She won't wake soon._

_Sleeping?_

_Dreaming, and searching. She's trying to wake the—_Faolin stopped, ducking his head, sheepish. _I'm not supposed to tell anyone. _He said.

_That's fine, hatchling. _Thorn rumbled gently, even though Murtagh felt his mind prickle with curiosity. Arya was dream-scrying, a risky art, as it left the dreamer open to attack but allowed a clearer, more precise vision. What was she attempting to scry? And waking—what needed to be woken?

_So what are you doing here? _Murtagh repeated his earlier question as calmly as possible as his skin prickled with heat.

_I smelled fire. _Faolin shifted closer, his emerald eyes peering into blue. _I wanted to investigate._

_No fire. _Murtagh said reassuringly. _Just Thorn and me._

_But you are fire. _Whispered a voice from deep in the wells of Murtagh's soul. _You are mine._

Faolin titled his head, almost as if he had heard the growling voice, smelled the flaming monster. _I should go. _He announced suddenly, backing up rapidly and snapping open his wings. He paused. _Can I—Can I talk to you, sometimes? _Finally he sounded his age, lost and a little vulnerable, but eager and excited, too.

Murtagh felt a pang in his chest and wondered what the green dragon would be like if Eragon hadn't died and broken his Rider's heart.

_Yes. _He said gently.

_Sure! _Thorn was more enthusiastic, his great crimson body rippling as he shook himself, the pall of his anger cast off and away. _Hatchlings need someone to talk to._

The green dragon snorted, lightening up a bit, and then leaping into the sky, his smaller wings straining. Soon he was gone, his thoughts fading, leaving Murtagh hurting and tired and conflicted.

There was heat in his belly, in his heart, accompanied by the snarling anger and the thorn-sharp promise made by the dragon of fire.

Loss and sorrow, colder than ice, lived in his hands and his feet. He was tired, so very tired, and his pain stabbed and bit, and clashed with the fire.

Inside, he was reeling. There was shock and horror and pain as the anger fought the sorrow, swelling, swelling, eating away at his steady hands, his hotcold heart.

He was on the knife's edge, balanced between two opposites, poised to fall into either and shatter and burn.

The growling in his head echoed, loud and clear. _You're mine, child of fire. Mine._

Shaking, Murtagh cast his eyes to the sky (to Eragon) and shouted with all his strength. _What do I do now?_

There was no answer.

Fire burned.

* * *

**Er, yes. As I said, I hate it. **

**Next is Arya!**

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	4. Chapter Three: The Searcher

**Hi guys! Wow, I just want to say thank you for all the reviews! 157 for three chapters! Holy crap, guys! **

**I'm exhausted, so this is going to be short- This is a chapter from Arya's POV. Enjoy!**

**Many thanks to my betas! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inheritance. CP does. **

* * *

"They are the Searchers; the lost, the hurting, forever doomed to search for the light." -_The Sight_

Chapter Three: The Searcher

_There was nothing and everything stretched out below her, great plains, lakes, forests, grasslands. Creatures she had never seen flitted below, large tawny cats with great manes, horses with black and white stripes, small, nimble deer, another large cat with spotted fur and long, leaping strides. _

_There were Shrrg, too, the huge wolves of the Beors, and lumbering, ponderous animals with gray hide and long, sinuous trunks. _

_On and on Arya flew, throwing her mind into the spell as invisible winds bore her eastward. She was searching endlessly, looking into infinity, trying to find what she sought. _

_The grassland with its strange animals ended—trees began, tall oaks and mighty sycamores, brances stretching and scratching at the sky. The wind changed from hot to cool and mountains threw themselves up, larger than the Beors, impossibly old, the bones of creatures that did not exist strewn carelessly every which way. _

_She saw the light below her mellow, go golden, and the trees were filled with the songs of birds that could not be seen. She saw a glimmer, a reflection of sunlight bouncing off water, and she strained forward—_

_And then she was falling, falling, the air dark around her, her spell broken—_

Arya returned to earth with a jolt, nearly falling from her chair, her eyes going wild as she fought to regain her breath. The scent of burned things flooded her nose, grounding her; she also scented cold, and humans, and the threat of war. The smells of Belatona settled around her and she calmed, her heart slowing.

And then she realized that, once again, she had failed.

Curses rose unbidden in her throat, and the temptation to utter them was almost overwhelming—anger, white-hot, flared in her chest. Instinctively, she fought it. Anger was a human emotion. Elves did not acknowledge it—to an elf anger did not exist. But it surged, hot, in her blood and she shook.

So much anger.

And grief, too. Sorrow so deep that it cut her to the core, choked her breath, made every movement a laborious, torturous thing.

Fighting for control Arya pressed her palms against the table, feeling its crumbling, scorched wood. She breathed, reaching for Faolin, and the sudden rush of worry and comfort steadied her, and the terrible un-elfish feelings diminished.

_Are you okay? _Faolin asked, concern flooding through to her. There was a crash and the skittering of claws on stone and then the young emerald dragon was there, in the ruined hut, nuzzling his Rider protectively.

Arya touched his nose gently, stroking the scales lightly. _I am not. _She confided, and his wide eyes were understanding as he nosed her, loving her unconditionally, with all his young heart.

A horrible wave of shame crashed over the elf Rider. Her dragon was two months old and already he was an adult, forced to grow up because his Rider was shattered.

He was as tall as a pony and twice as long, his wings long, and soon he would be able to carry her in flight. He was not as muscular as some other males, like Thorn and Konungr, the orange giant, but he was long and lean, his claws sharp and his teeth strong. His tail was the only unusual aspect of his body—the razor edging which tipped the tails of all dragons was slightly deformed, curved downwards like a dagger. As a result Faolin carried his tail off the ground, much like a cat.

Arya realized her hands were shaking and she closed them into fists, breathing, in out, in out.

_You'll find it. _Faolin said encouragingly, half curling around her. _The Vault of Souls is somewhere, right? _

Arya closed her eyes, seeing the golden forest, the grasslands, the tantalizing glint of sunlight off water. _I cannot reach it. _She snapped, though her anger was not directed at Faolin. _Three times I have seen the golden forest and the beginnings of a river, but I can't get any closer!_

Faolin made a sympathetic sound in his throat. _No one has ever been there. _He murmured. _You've gotten closer than anyone, right? _

_Someone has had to have been there. _The elf muttered, starting to pace, her feet kicking up little puffs of ash. _The story is not baseless—someone has seen it, and then shared the story. _

Sniffing, Faolin put his paws up on the table. It groaned under his weight.

_Be careful. _Arya chided gently. Her dragon sniffed at the feather that lay on the table, his nostrils flaring.

The feather, two pieces of a whole, was that of a phoenix—and ancient, fiery creature that came when the Sorrowsong, the elvish song of mourning was sung. The phoenix was only seen in times of great sorrow, such as the death of Oromis, the oldest Rider.

It was said that the feather of a phoenix could be given to Death at the Vault of Souls and in return, Death would give one of his own back to the world.

But the feather had been cut in the Battle of the Falling, sliced in half when Eragon's sword Brisingr fell on top of it.

In the two months since it had been cut, the feather had lost most of its brilliant, fiery coloring. The golds, oranges, and reds had dulled, becoming gray, like ash. The only remaining color was in the center of both halves of the feather, in an area about three inches wide. The feather was dying, and with it, Arya's last chance to save Eragon.

Determination mixed with agony flooded her body, and she once again found it hard to breathe. Faolin pushed off the table to join her, his eyes following her gently. _Do you need me to go get Griffin? _He asked.

Arya stiffened slightly at the mention of the Gray One, but forced herself to relax. Griffin had been helpful, telling her that Gray Folk lore said that the Vault of Souls was far to the east, beyond the Hadrac and the borders of the Empire.

He had given her the memories of his people, the memories of an ancient land birthed by the gods, hot and dry and filled with creatures. He had even given her a rustic, faded map on bark that Lore, the librarian, had brought.

On this map, the very edge of the Beors could be seen, but beyond that it was completely new territory for Arya. She removed the map from its hiding place and looked it over again, staring hard at the faded colors. There was a great plain, stretching on and on, the size of the Hadrac desert. And then there was an enormous lake, the size of a small sea, that swallowed half of the map, stretching north and south lazily, rivers cracking away from it and flowing in every direction. And then the grasslands started, dry, almost desert-like land where trees were few and far in between and the bizarre animals roamed. The map, ancient and cracked, ran to edges of a forest, the trees painted a faded yellow, and then there was nothing.

The map ended, and Griffin, with all his knowledge, didn't know anything more.

_Do you know when Lore will arrive? _Arya asked, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over Faolin's head.

_No. Soon, though. I'll ask Griffin? _

_Go ahead, little one. _

Nosing her once more, as if assuring himself that she'd be okay, Faolin spun and darted out the door, his curved tail slicing cleanly through the doorframe, and then took flight as soon as he reached the outside.

She watched as he rose, emerald against the sky, and sailed off, no doubt calling to Griffin.

Alone again, Arya shuddered. She almost wished that Faolin had never hatched for her. What use was a heartbroken woman to a dragon? Already she was holding him down, forbidding him to have contact with the other dragons in the city.

Murtagh's clan was dangerous, this Arya knew. She had observed them from afar, and decided that she wanted nothing to do with them. They were willingly led by a madman and a murderer, following his every command, and from what she could see, they were all slightly unhinged. The wildman Erik was a demon, loud and crass, fitting right in with the weapons master and his crowd. The elf archer, Vé, was quiet, introverted, completely uninterested in the company of other elves, preferring to be with his dragon Sunna, a loud, bouncy creature, and Murtagh. The other elf, Lovissa, was also withdrawn, but she, at least, was content in the presence of other elves. Her dragon Deloi, one of Glaedr's sons, was not a social creature in the slightest, and spent most of his time curled in the darkness of an alley, mourning the death of his mate Ophelia. The last pair, Raltin, a human, and his dark indigo dragon Talon, where rather creepy, sitting by themselves day after day and observing, eyes flat and expressionless.

No, Faolin did not need to mingle with that particular group of madmen and beasts. To his credit the little dragon did not complain or fight against his Rider's wishes. Arya seemed to be all the company he desired, though he was overjoyed when Griffin or Rhunon ventured into the Burned District to visit.

Resuming her pacing, Arya loosened her mental shields ever so slightly. Her emotions (the cursed, non-elf things) twitched in her thoughts, pain, anger.

The sky overhead was blue, white clouds drifting lazily to and fro—it would snow soon. The thought helped center Arya's loose, dangerous feelings. Snow meant the full onset of winter, which meant Galbatorix would not attack until the snows were cleared and he could march without hinderance.

When the first snow fell, Arya would leave the Varden and travel east, using Griffin's map, and find the Vault of Souls. Then she would bargain with Death, whatever that meant, and get Eragon back.

Eragon….

The pain over his death was like an infected wound, raw, scabbed over, refusing to heal. But Arya, unlike Roran and Murtagh, who wore their grief on their sleeves and in their eyes, kept her sorrow reigned in, tight, coiling in her blood but never leaking out.

The grief of the two men (Murtagh didn't deserve grief, in Arya's opinion—it was his fault Eragon was dead in the first place) was a tangible thing, and it was destroying them. Through the bowl of water Arya used to scry, she saw Roran, haunted, flinch at nothing and sometimes stare at shadows. Once he had even had a conversation with his doorway, snapping and snarling at someone she could not see.

And Murtagh was similar, though he did not mutter at nothings. Arya watched him coldly as he struggled down the streets, his leg shaking, and she felt a sort of vindication. She hoped his wounds hurt him.

Arya used her pain. It fueled her, hardened her heart. She drew on it to scry far-off places, to slip into the dream-trance and conjure up the farthest corners of Alagaesia. Her pain was her fuel, pumping her ruined heart, giving her strength.

Determination was the only thing keeping the former princess going. She ate little and slept even less, but her eyes sparked fire and her shoulders were straight.

_Going without sleep will kill you, Arya. _Glaedr murmured, suddenly entering her thoughts. Arya jerked a little at the sudden intrusion but forced herself to relax.

_I will not die. _She said flatly.

_Glaedr is right. _Sirocco, Galbatorix's dragon master, added. Both dragons were concerned and sorrowful. They too had mourned Eragon's death.

_We felt your frustration. _Glaedr rumbled.

_You failed to see the Vault of Souls again, yes?_

_Yes. _Arya replied stiffly. _I will not give up. _

_Perhaps you should. _The golden dragon's voice was impossibly gentle. _Arya- argetlam, you are an elf. The Gateway of Death will not show itself to you because you do not believe that it exists. _

_Is an elf supposed to feel such anger? _Arya snapped, letting the rage submerse her, fill her, and the two dragons recoiled slightly in shock. _Or such sorrow? _Pain flooded her and them. _Or such love? _She thought of Faolin, both dragon and elf, and of Eragon under the trees in Du Weldenvarden, and the two dragons sighed, caught up. Again the agony flared and they hissed.

_Elves are not supposed to feel such emotion. _She said bitterly. _And yet I do. So perhaps I can believe in the Gateway of Death as well._

_Emotions run deeply in elves. _Sirocco spoke first, recovering. _They have merely been controlled through the bond with the dragons. And without dragons…_

_That bond is collapsing and the emotions are running again, I know. _Arya paced. _Rhunon said as much. _

_But the disbelief in gods, and, as a result, in the god of Death, is not a result of the dragon-bond. _Glaedr interjected, his voice low. _Dragons have their gods, child. _

Arya nearly snorted. _The Great First Dragon, who breathed and the sun was born? He does not sound like the god of Death. _

_He is not. _Sirocco intoned. _Peace, elf-woman, and let us speak. We are about to tell you of the dragon gods, and the Gateway of Death, your Vault of Souls. _

_The Great-First-Dragon, _Glaedr began, _is called Father Sky. It is He who holds the stars in His scales and the clouds in His belly. The sun is His right eye, the moon His left. He created the sky from His own body, and it is there that He lives. _

_Father Sky's mate is Mother Light. She is the source of magic and all the energy in the world. Father Sky created the sun, but Mother Light sustains it, feeds all the lights in the world with Her power. From these two came Their five offspring, the five Elements that shape the earth. _

_Lord Flame is the eldest, the child born in the first cataclysmic fight between the Mother and the Father. He fell from Them and was born hot, the anger of the gods solidified into being. Lady Water was the second, born from the Mother's sorrow when She saw what Her anger with Her mate had created. Lord Earth was the third, born of the solidness of the gods. Lady Wind followed Earth, springing into being right after him. And the youngest child of Mother and Father was Lord Ice. _

Sirocco took over. _These five offspring were given a task by their parents—create life. At first each child tried on his or her own to complete the task, for they are fiercely independent beings. But, after failing several times, they began to collaborate. After several tries the five siblings created the Gray Folk, and then gave them a world to inhabit. Earth gave them ground for walking, Wind gave air for breathing. Water gave streams for drinking and Flame gave fire for warmth. Only Ice did not give anything, because he was a proud, vain creature, and did not believe the Gray Folk worthy of his presence. _

_The Gray Folk were allowed to populate their world, and animals were born. _

_But then, the Gray Folk overstepped their boundries and bound Mother Light, with all Her infinite power, to language. Lord Ice carried the news to his father, and Father Sky was furious—his mate was trapped. As punishment, he destroyed the Gray Folk, leaving only a few unscathed. _

_The children were angry, for they believed that their creations had been unjustly destroyed. But Father Sky allowed them each to create a race of beings. _

_Lord Flame and Lady Wind cast their thoughts together and from them dragons were born, able to breathe fire and fly with their gods. _

_Lord Earth learned from them and created the dwarves. Lady Water and Lady Wind summoned the elves into existence, creatures whose thoughts were as free as the wind and whose natures were as changeable as water. Not to be outdone, Lord Flame created humans, creatures of pure emotion, as he was. _

_Others were created—the Urgals, the Ra'zac, and all could die, as Father Sky had introduced death to the world—but the only god-child who did not create a race was Lord Ice. _

_He was too proud. _Glaedr took control of the story again. _He did not believe that anything was worthy of his workmanship. His siblings were outraged by this, and by Ice telling Father Sky of the Gray Folk's error. So they, together with their creations, united against Lord Ice and fought him, driving him across the land they had created. _

_Hard pressed on all sides, Lord Ice did create—great slavering beasts called the Hounds plagued humans. The Fanghur tortured dwarves, the elves fell to monsters with horns and teeth. _

_But Lord Ice was eventually forced into the Forest of the Mother, where Her soul was bound, and his siblings created a new world for their ungrateful brother. They gave him a world full of color and then a world full of gray, and then cast all the dead souls into it. _

"_There, brother!" They cried. _Arya almost heard the shout, ancient and bone-shaking, vibrate in her belly. _"This is your domain! You were too proud to create any beings, and so you shall care for all when they die, as it is you who brought death into the world!" _

_And then Lord Ice's siblings bound him there with their bodies. Lady Water became a river, flowing into the Realms of the Dead, forming a barrier that Ice could not cross. Earth became a massive rock, holding Ice back. Wind became the wind, flying every which way to confuse and confound her brother. Flame, however, strayed to close to Ice, and all of the youngest's creations fell upon him. The Hounds and the Fangur and the monsters dragged Flame down, imprisoning him in a cage of bones, forcing him to warm the Realms of the Dead forever. _

_And Lord Ice, trapped in a task he despised, became Death. It is he who lords over the dead souls and reaches his icy hands into the mortal world, taking souls as their bodies expire. _

Arya stayed silent, processing the story. _So the Rock of Kuthain is the dragon Lord Earth, solidified to hold his brother inside the Realms of the Dead? And the water that I keep seeing, that is also a goddess? _

_Ah, see, child? _There was no judgment in Sirocco's voice. _You do not believe in the gods, and therefore, not in the afterlife. _

_I—_Arya turned, glaring at the faded feather on the table.

_It is alright, Arya. _Glaedr hummed softly. _There are others you can entrust the feather to, you know this. _

_There is no one. _She said flatly. _The only other who loved Eragon as much as I is Roran Stronghammer, and he is not capable of going so far or so long. I have watched him; he is barely able to keep himself from falling apart where he stands. _

_No, _Arya murmured, steel borne of pain and suffering hardening her voice. _No, Roran can not go. _

_And there is no one else? _Sirocco prompted.

Understanding who the two dragons were hinting at, Arya almost hissed at them in fury. _No. There is no one else. _

The dragons fell silent.

_Think about what we have said, Arya-vora. And rethink your anger. _Glaedr said, and then he and Sirocco faded away.

Arya's pacing increased, and her thoughts whirled, colored strongly with emotion. The dragon's story of the siblings binding one to be the caretaker of the dead was preposterous—somewhere in recorded history there would be a mention of a great battle where all races were involved. And the elves and humans and Urgals weren't native to Alagaesia; they settled there when forced out of their homelands by great calamities.

Death was a methaphor—it was an invention of mortal creatures to explain away the fear of dying. Elves knew that death was not a journey to the afterlife, it was just… death. The mind went blank and there was no consciousness, no knowledge or awareness. It was the End.

And then Arya stiffened horribly, her heart finally catching up with her mind.

Death was final, was absolute. Eragon was dead, he was gone, he was lost in the void, in the nothingness, and she was a foolish little girl for ever even contemplating bringing him back.

And with this realization, she slid to the floor and she, despite being and elf, despite her love, cried.

She sat, kneeling in the ashes of a burned city and burned dreams, until she heard an unusual _step-clunk-step _behind her, and she whirled, reflexively lighting her hand and reaching for her sword.

Murtagh Stormbreaker stood in front of her, leaning heavily on his red sword. "Peace," he said lowly, raising his hands. "Peace, I mean you no harm, Drottningu."

"Get out." Arya snapped, but her face and her voice were stone, unmoving. Murtagh mirrored her expression, his own face impassable, only his clear bright eyes betraying his heart.

"No."

Her fingers tightened on her sword. "Leave." She repeated, steel in her voice.

"Or what, Arya?" There was only exhaustion in Murtagh's voice, and he slowly sat down, keeping his sharp eyes on her glowing hand and her sword. "Us fighting is not going to accomplish anything."

"It would make me feel substantially better." She said automatically, without thinking. Confusion swirled. _Where did that come from? _

The smile Murtagh gave her was hard and bitter. "Would it? Even though you are an elf, Drottningu, I highly doubt that you could beat me in a fight."

It was the downfall of all elves that forced Arya to reply. "You could not." Pride in her people bid her speak, and her magic winked out as she grasped her blade in both hands. "You are crippled. I have seen you fight—you can barely move fast enough and your strikes have lost power."

"So you have been watching me?"

Swearing internally, Arya cursed her blind stupidity—she was losing control and the damn agony in her chest was to blame.

"That is quite alright." Murtagh continued, as though Arya had never interrupted him. "Yes, I admit my ability to fight has been taken away from me. I am not as strong anymore, and I need to relearn years of swordplay. But I could still beat you."

Her lip curled of its own accord and inside Arya was screaming. "How?"

"You hurt." He said simply. "You hurt so much that it throws everything out of balance—your magic, your faith, your control."

Arya lurched to her feet, inexplicable anger flowing through her veins. "I am not."

"You are." Murtagh refuted calmly. "I am aware of what if happening to the elves. Because they went a century without the bond of the dragons they are losing their control, their steel. Elves are becoming more _human_, because out of the three races bound together, only the elves and humans remain. The elves and humans are linked, now, the very parts of their being shared. And the humans feel, feel so much and so deeply that the elves cannot help but feel also. And you, Arya, have hastened the process for yourself.

"By falling in love with Eragon, a _human_, you deepened the bond. You opened your heart to all the emotion that plagues the humans and lost your elvish control. And that _scares_ you, doesn't it? It frightens you deeply and you are losing focus."

"Stop."

"Is that why you can't find what you're searching for? You can't focus and can't wield your magic?"

Arya froze. "How did you know that?" She demanded. "How did you know that I am looking for something?"

For the first time, emotion flashed across the red Rider's face; guilt, strong and clear. "I talked to Faolin." He said softly.

White rage splashed across Arya's vision and, without thinking, she lunged forward, her sword scoring a red line across Murtagh's chest and he hissed, biting back a howl. It was only his magic that stopped her next strike from tearing flesh, but her sword connected with a _thump _and she knew it would bruise.

"Stay away from him." She snarled, protectiveness and sorrow and anger swelling into a monster in her chest. "You'll kill him too!"

Pain joined guilt. "I'm sorry." He said softly.

Arya slashed at him again and Murtagh winced, flinching at the pain. "Murderer!" She spat, drawing back from another strike.

This time he reached to catch her whistling blade, stopping it in his large hands. "Enough." He gasped. "Enough. You're angry with me."

"It's your fault." For a moment Arya resembled her ancestors, the fierce, proud, warlike elves who nearly destroyed themselves and their homeland. Her ears were pined like a cat's, her lips pulled over her teeth. "You killed Eragon."

"_No._" Blue fire shone from his eyes, conviction, pain, love, faith, self-damnation. "I didn't. I was willing to die for _him_, do you understand? I was ready. When I stood on Shruikan's back and challenged Galbatorix, I was _ready to die. _But Eragon—Eragon, the fool, died for me. He loved me enough to die, and he did! _I _should have died, I know it! I should have died and then you would not be in this situation, with your heart broken and your emotions spilled all out in front of you. Faolin would be happy, you would be happy, and yet Eragon did die, because he couldn't stand to have others in danger for his sake!"

Arya shook, confused.

"I'm sorry that Eragon chose to sacrifice himself. It would have been better for all concerned if he hadn't, but he did, and now we have to live with it!"

Something _human_ stirred—pity, pain, fear.

"Galbatorix killed my brother." The anger faded from Murtagh's voice and for one clear moment, Arya saw him as he was, not as he pretended to be. He was a child, barely twenty-one, a baby by elfin standards. "I did not."

And then he let go of her sword and bared his throat.

For a heartbeat (infitity) they stood, Arya's sword poised to slash at Murtagh's neck, the only movement in the room their shaking hands.

_He is responsible for Eragon's death. He'll corrupt Faolin, get him killed._

_But…_

_He's so…_

_Sad. _

Arya, shaking like a leaf in the wind, lowered her sword.

Murtagh took a deep breath. "On behalf of my clan of Dragon Riders, I come to invite you into our ranks. Faolin would flourish with others, I think." He wiped his chest, wincing, eyes roving, and then he saw the map.

He took two steps and lifted it, ignoring her warning hiss. He stared, transfixed, and took in the foreign landscape. He looked at her, his eyes far away.

"Where," he said, "did you get this?"

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**If you have any questions, please ask!**

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	5. Chapter Four: The Hound

**Hi guys! I am so sorry about the wait! School is starting again, so the one-week updates are not gonna happen! But you all love me anyway, right? **

**Okay, so here's Chapter Four, Roran's POV. I know saome of you are wondering about Saphira and where she is, and I assure that soon all questions will be answered. Just, not next week, probably, lol. **

**This chapter is unbeta'd because I feel awful for making you all wait. So forgive any mistakes, please! I'm only one person! With bad eyes! **

**213 reviews? Holy sh*t guys, YOU ARE AWESOME. Seriously. Keep it up. **

**Also, a little shameless self-pimping- For any of you who've seen Inception, I can has fic! I posted it; it's called Bridges. SHOW ME THE LOVE, PLEASE!**

**To my betas- the next chapter will come your way, I promise. :D**

**Disclaimer: Inheritance is not my sandbox. I'm just the raccoon who takes a dump there. **

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"It is fear, little hunter, O it is fear!" _–The Song of the Hunter_

Chapter Four: The Hound

The wind was icy and biting as Roran rode against it, his face screwed up against the cold and the fear, his hands clenching around the reins. Trumpet strained, his long, up at the earth, his hooves thunder on the ground.

Ice cracked under the black hooves but neither rider nor horse felt any inclination to slow down—Roran was trying not to throw up and Trumpet was clearly eager to be back running after two months in recovery. The black horse was still slower than usual, due to his injuries, but he was fast enough.

Belatona was gone, blocked out by the jagged tree line. The sky overhead was overcast, gray clouds condensing and forming a solid steel-colored wall, and the threat of snow hung heavy over the land.

Roran was running, running and running, as far away and as fast as he could manage. In his fist he clutched Katrina's letter, and the dread that coiled in his throat suffused his veins, growing with every pulse of his heart.

The trees whipped at horse and rider; Roran felt several draw thin lines on his face, his neck, his unprotected hands. He didn't feel the pain or the heat of blood slipping from his skin, however. All he felt was terror and dread and the bone-deep chill of the wind.

_Katrina is coming to the Varden. _Was all Roran could think, the words twisting and bouncing around in his head. _To Belatona! _

Belatona was not safe—there were still sightings of the Halflings or enemy scouts around it, and the fields were full of rotting corpses and the streets full of broken glass and stone and weaponry. It was no place to raise a child.

_You were safe where you were! Why did you have to leave? _He thought at her desperately, even though she couldn't hear him. The ring on his finger tugged his mind southward, towards his wife, and now he was aware of the sensation growing stronger and stronger, with every passing hour, as Katrina came nearer and nearer.

_Damn. _Roran spurred Trumpet faster and the horse was eager to oblige, snorting as he dove through the forest, his hooves thundering and rending the ice.

The bearded general had no idea where he was going—only one thought filled his mind, and that was _away. _He needed to be away, to be far, far away, from the Varden, from the stress, from the dragons and Riders and dead cousin-brothers and fathers. The city was too much—noise and emotion and pain and blood—and dammit, someone was going to be tasting hammer if Roran hadn't left.

And so he ran, hard, and the forest and the ice swallowed him up, hiding, concealing. The Varden would worry but he would return (he thought) eventually, he just needed to think, to settle his trembling heart, to stop seeing dead men—!

_I'm not going anywhere, son. _Garrow rode astride a horse of bone, the beast tossing its gleaming skull, its sharp hooves galloping on the air. _You cannot lose me—I am you._

_No! _

Trumpet ran faster, perhaps sensing the dead man and horse that raced beside him.

Garrow, blue and ivory, smiled widely. _I shall see you again, my son. You cannot escape me!_

The forest swallowed up the ethereal rider and his horse collapsed to dust. Shaking, chills and gooseflesh erupting down Roran's spine, the general ran his horse harder, ignoring the sting of branches and the fear that followed him like a cloud, borne on the shoulders of Garrow.

_I'm afraid of my father. _The thought burst into being and Roran felt it take root. _I am afraid of the man who raised me. _

_You are afraid of his shade. _Said another voice, a snide mocking little thing in the back of his head. _Of his shadow. _

_I am not afraid of my father. _He argued, wincing as he caught a branch on his face.

_You are. _The voice mocked. _You didn't protect him, and you fear that. _

_Leave me alone! _

_Never. _

Trumpet ran so fast that it seemed as if he was flying, his hooves barely grazing the ground, and Roran shook and shuddered and bled little droplets all over the ground.

He was cold, freezing, ice cracking in his bones, freezing water pumping though his heart. His fingers were blue and ivory and he couldn't stop shaking.

_It's so cold. _His mind told him. _So cold. _

But Trumpet was warm and real and the niggling sensation in the back of Roran's mind was warm and real, pulling him, dragging him towards his pregnant wife.

The forest (or Trumpet, he wasn't sure) flew by and the sky went from gray to pink to black and it was nighttime and Roran couldn't run anymore. Trumpet shook and sweated, his nose low to the ground, foam dribbling from his chin and he took great heaving gulp from the clear stream, his sides shivering.

Roran felt a stab of pity. "I'm sorry." He murmured, stroking the horse's ears. "I pushed you too hard."

The ebony stallion whuffed loudly, pausing from his guzzling to nose the general in a way that clearly said_ I forgive you, you insane bastard, but do it again and I'll kill you. _

The pair stood at the fringes of the Spine, the great pines and bare trees looming to one side, the open fields of the north and the southern woodland to the other. The stream was slow-moving, the edges crusted with ice, and only the faint silver light of the moon through the clouds cast any illumination.

Alone in the dark, Roran allowed himself to shudder, his fear catching up with him.

_You can't hide from me, boy. _Said Garrow from the ice and the shadow.

_I know. _

Roran lit a crackling fire, sending flickering orange light into the dark, twisted places, taking comfort in the heat and the light. His fingers, stiff, lost their claw-like shape, and Trumpet, once he had drunk his fill, grazed near the fire, his sides still heaving.

Out of the corner of his eye Roran caught a glimpse of marbled skin. Garrow grinned and was gone. He closed his eyes instead, choosing to shut out the flickering flames and the dead face of his father. With his eyes closed, Roran felt like he was at home—the whickering of a horse, the soft sounds of wind against trees, the birdcalls.

He could smell the corn and the fire, hear Eragon laughing, Garrow grumbling gruffly. Againdst his eyelids he saw sunlight, the farm, sprawled and lazy and golden, and there was peace—

And there was a roar and _whoosh_ and fire bloomed, the farm and the field and Garrow and Eragon devoured in the blink of an eye.

Roran choked on a cry and his eyes flew open, his hand half-drawing his hammer as if he could beat back memories and pain and fear.

He blinked, struggling against the dimness, and then he looked across the fire and shouted in shock.

Eragon sat huddled across from him, his face mottled blue and ivory, eyes misted and dead. His dark hair was sopping wet and water leaked from him, dripping, forming a puddle.

_Why didn't you look for me? _The dead Eragon asked, his voice resonate and mournful. _I tried and tried, Roran. I waited for you. You let me drown._

"No…" The general groaned, his voice a dying gasp, the sound an animal makes when it's been slashed across the throat. "No, Eragon, no…"

_You left me there. I was so cold… _And the dead Rider reached across the fire, his marbled skin suffering no ill effects from the fire (_because he's not real, he's not real) _and he touched his beared cousin.

Roran's head fell back and he screamed but water rushed into his throat, flooding his lungs. There was cold and dark and wetness everywhere, all around him, he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, there was fire in his chest and water in his eyes—

Roran jerked upright, blinking, gasping great heaving breaths. The fire was low and the moon had migrated, now a silvery blur to the west—dawn was breaking.

_I was dreaming? _Roran thought, still shaking and gulping air like he could never get enough.

No—he had been half-awake.

_Hallucination. _The voice supplied. _You're tired and sick in the mind, my boy. These things will only get worse… _

_Leave me alone! _Roran bellowed, leaping to his feet and swinging his hammer, shouting against voices and fathers and brother-cousins.

_No. _All three whispered back, and Roran shook.

_I'm not crazy. _He snarled. _I'm not sick. You are dead, you are dead and I'm sorry but I need my wife, I can't lose her, leave me ALONE!_

And then—

There was silence. The embers almost went out, plunging the fringe of the Spine into near darkness, only faint orange light giving trees an outline.

There was a soft _whuff _of air and a gentle nudge; on instinct Roran went taught, expecting an enemy strike. The velvet nose in his ear soothed him, though. Trumpet, sensing his two-legged friend's distress, nuzzled Roran comfortingly, and the man laid a hand on the horse's nose.

"Just nightmares, Trumpet." Roran murmured. "Just nightmares. They're not real, they can't hurt us."

But as he tiredly went around and prepared a bit of food, Roran's neck pricked and he felt eyes watching him, eyes that were malevolent and accusing and _hungry. _

It set him on edge and as soon as the light broke over the Spine he rode, setting off south west, angling for the presence he felt niggling in his mind. Katrina's letter had been written over three months ago, at least. The paper her letter was written on was yellowed and older and it stank of mold. Katrina would be at least past Feinster, probably residing in one of the smaller towns or villages.

_I must find her. _Roran thought as he rode, ignoring the cold that seemed to grow. _I must find her. _

The ring on his hand pulled him ever southward and he and Trumpet settled into a smooth rhythm, the horse's hooves steady and enduring. The forest flashed by and the cold continued to grow but Roran took little notice, choosing instead to focus on the shadowy figures that raced alongside him, bones clacking, faces grinning.

The sun rolled on through the sky and the wind took on a wet chill. By mid-afternoon it was snowing, the white flakes spinning with growing speed.

Roran's travelling cloak was soon dusted in white flecks and Trumpet's massive hindquarters were soaked with melted snow and the skies still darkened, promising a blizzard, which was not a good thing to be trapped in.

_I must find a place to stay. _The general was at loath to halt his journey but he knew from experience that if he did not stop soon he would be trapped in a blizzard, helpless, and he would probably die.

_I hope you're safe. _He thought to Katrina, and he turned Trumpet away from the fringes of the dark forest and rode in search of a small village. He did not find one, not that he really expected to—he was too close to the Spine and its horrors and the villages he did see where razed and abandoned from the hard fighting.

There was no life in this place, and the general and his horse were forced to flee into the dark forest itself to escape the wind and the driving snow. One among the dark, naked trees, Roran dismounted and led Trumpet by his bridle, shivering as the cold intensified.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a swirl of blue and ivory; Garrow, on his bone horse, wheeled and cantered back out into the fields, vanishing into the white.

Suppressing fear, Roran once again found a place to stay, a clearing sheltered by looming pines, and started a fire, warming his hands over the flame and cold slithered down his spine, starting a deep, wracking shiver. Trumpet lipped the bark off the trees and the man's own stomach was growling but he wasn't hungry—there was no time to hunt, only time to rest and wait out the storm.

The howling wind shook the trees and snow pelted the ground, ice and frost covering every surface. Roran hunkered even closer to the fire and hissed against the cold, his mind scrambling. This was southern Alagaesia; it rarely snowed here, and when it did it did so in little bursts and showers, occasionally dusting the ground.

There hadn't been a blizzard in a century.

_The gods are angry. _The voice supplied softly.

_Why would the gods care? _Deciding to humor the voice Roran responded. _They haven't cared before. _

_Perhaps they have. _The voice was reflective, a far cry from it's earlier mocking jeers. _Perhaps they've been angry for a while and now they can act. _

Roran snorted. _If the gods were angry why can't they just blast Galbatorix where he stands? _

_The gods are bound by rules too, you know. Rules imposed by the two Parents, rules so their immortal offspring don't accidentally destroy their mortal ones. The gods cannot directly move against those who live on the earth. _

Roran mentally turned away from the voice. _Look at me. _He thought with a hint of dark humor. _Discussing religion with a voice in my head. _

_Who better to discuss it with? _Said the voice as it faded. _Who better?_

And then there was only the shriek of the wind and the clattering of trees and branches cracking into one another, bent into submission by the blizzard.

Roran absentmindedly fingered the dozens of tiny scratches he had received from hard riding through the woods, wincing as some of them cracked open and oozed before the blood froze onto his skin.

_It's so cold. _He thought wearily. He had only been this cold once or twice before, when a true northern blizzard trapped he and his family inside their cabin and the firewood ran out, leaving the three men to huddle together.

A pang of nostalgia stirred. Roran missed Garrow, missed Eragon, missed the way they loved him and watched out or him and he for them. He missed having a family, being a farmer.

_You don't have to worry, son. _Garrow was there, his frozen, freezing arms around his son's shoulders.

_Don't worry. _Eragon echoed, laying an icy hand on Roran's shoulders.

_In this cold, you'll come with us soon. _The dead farmer hummed. _It won't be long now. _

_No… _Roran thought, but he knew, in the deepest part of himself, that it was true, that it was so cold and the fire wasn't doing anything to warm his body and he was so sleepy, so weary of the world, and fear, too slow to save him, was starting to coil in his gut.

His father and his brother held onto him, their cold leeching into his body, and his eyes fluttered and he shivered violently.

_No. _He tried to struggle, tried to break free of their blue and ivory hands, not noticed that his own hands where so pale they matched the snow around him. The terror in his gut (of death, of losing the will to live) was stirring, but it wasn't fast enough, hot enough.

He was fading, slipping, and Garrow was humming a lullaby…

_Katrina..._

In the back of his freezing mind Roran felt the link between himself and his wife, and it was pulsing, _breaking…_

But it was hot, hotter and hotter and hotter as his life drained out to blue and ivory hands, and there was such fierce heat (love) there that he felt something twitch—

_Roran! _Katrina, Katrina, her face, her eyes, her belly round and swelling. _Roran, don't you die on me!_

Fear and love mingled, coiled. There was heat and Roran, with the remnants of his strength, surged forward, up and across, collapsing on the fire that was dying, and his clothes and skin singed but there was _heat. _

Garrow snarled and was gone, his cold sucked into a point in the air and vanishing—

Trumpet bugled, leaping forward—

Katrina screamed—

And Roran seized his horse's neck and let the black stallion lift him, drag him out of the now-smoldering firepit, and his arms shook with cold and effort and he gritted his teeth against the pain and the cold, and for several minutes (or hours) he lay there, pressed against his horse, borrowing warmth until the aching ice left his chest and his heart and flowed down to his fingers, which still trembled.

_Katrina? _Roran thought, but the link was still and Katrina was gone, but—

_It was so real. _He had heard _her_, across however many leagues and miles separated them, and she had saved him.

Eragon had said the rings would alert one if their partner was in danger of death, and Roran had been so cold, he had almost been asleep, asleep so deeply he wouldn't have woken, and Katrina had heard him.

"T-thank y-y-you." Roran chattered, patting his horse gratefully.

The lean black stallion snorted back, lipping his two-legger's hair affectionately.

Roran leaned against Trumpet's legs, taking comfort in the warmth of another, his eyes lightly closed, his wife's shout ringing in his ears—

And another scream blasted through the curtain of howling wind and the general staggered to his feet, drawing his hammer.

_Katrina? _

But no, because the link was still dormant, still calm.

Another scream, this one closer, punctured the sound of the storm. Roran frowned and pulled Trumpet back, hiding in the shadows cast by the mighty pines, concealed by swirling snow.

A third scream, louder than the wind, the sound of a person half-mad with fear and pain, washed over Roran, and Trumpet began to shift, his eyes wide, his ears pinned flat to his neck.

A man, a soldier of the Empire with ragged clothes and pieces of armor falling from his body, stumbled into the clearing, another scream on his lips. His crimson cloak was torn badly and his armor was smeared with bright crimson blood, his arms and legs littered with deep, ragged wounds that looked like dog bites.

_Must be a big dog. _The voice, returning, muttered, almost wicked with glee.

Roran watched, frozen in horror, as the man lurched forward and stumbled and fell, collapsing in the center of the clearing.

For a moment, there was no movement save that of the blizzard, the thick, almost-concealing snow.

The man's cape fluttered and Roran squinted, his eyes and ears straining.

He heard the man whimper, pitifully, and the wind groan and scream. And then, below it all, growing louder and louder, was a horrible, horrible growl.

In an instant the snowstorm ceased to be in the clearing; it still raged outside the circle of trees with all its fury, but the clearing was suddenly still and calm and Roran shrank deeper into the shadows, the snow now spinning at his back and the wind muted.

The growling increased and the man moaned, despair and terror wracking his body. "Please…" He groaned.

Roran's heart stuttered in terror.

From the storm and the pines, a nightmare prowled, its fur as white as snow and it's eyes a glowing crimson.

It had ragged fur and four paws the size of Trumpet's hooves. Thick silver claws pierced the newly fallen snow and a long, lupine tail thrashed. Silver fangs were bared, blood dripping onto the white.

A huge white wolf, easily as big as Trumpet, padded into the clearing and circled the fallen, whimpering man, snarling and growling and snapping to itself.

It's eyes were piercing and red and horrible.

Roran watched it, transfixed, terrified for his life. This was no ordinary wolf—and it was not a Shrrg, one of the large wolves that roamed the Beors.

No, this wolf, with it's white coat and vermillion eyes, was a monster of legend, of myth.

"Please." The man repeated.

"No." The wolf said, and Roran couldn't think. It had _spoken. _Actual, human speech had come from the mouth of an animal.

"No." The monster wolf repeated, circling. "You are going to die, human." It had a rough, deep, snarling voice and its accent was strange, foreign. But it could be understood, and Roran knew without a doubt what he was looking at.

It was a Hound, one of Death's own creatures. The great white wolves were his servants, his instruments. They entered the lands of the living to carry out their master's biding, to search for something that he had lost long ago.

And there was a Hound not two hundred feet away.

_They're stories! _

_So were Dragon Riders. _Said the voice. _Be still. If it smells you, it will kill you. _

The Hound growled and lunged, snapping at the man, who screamed as his hand was bitten clean off.

"You have seen something of my master's." Snarled the Hound. "Show me."

"I know nothing!" Screeched the bleeding man. "I know nothing!"

The Hound snarled and smacked the man, placing its huge, clawed paw on his forehead. "Show me!" It ordered, and lifted its head, a howl that was ancient and terrifying and splattered with blood rose into the storm, and the man frothed at the mouth and Roran saw, on the snow, a clear image—

Eragon, bloody, hurt, howling and roaring, two bright coal eyes, claws of flame, burning soldiers, a dungeon, dank and crimson with blood. Smoke curling from Eragon's mouth, fire twisting to obey, a voice that was thunder and flames licking wood—

The man screamed and died and the image faded.

The Hound growled to itself. "So the Fireson had Him." It hissed. "But the Fireson is dead."

There was a sound that shoved itself into being, that made Trumpet shake and Roran go weak at the knees.

The Hound howled again. "Yes, Master." It cried. "I shall find it, Master."

And then Trumpet shifted, a twig cracking under his hoof.

The Hound spun, nostrils flaring, and Roran felt terror swell in his chest.

The great white wolf bared its teeth in a horrible grin, blood oozing from its jaws. "You smell of Fire." It snarled, dropping its head and crouching. "Perhaps you know where He is, Fireson?"

"W-what?"

The Hound spat and growled. "Human!" It bayed. "Reveal to me His location or I shall tear out your throat."

Roran didn't even have time to ponder who He might be. Instinct overrode his terror and he crouched, hammer out, ready.

The wolf raised its head and cried out again. "Very well!" It boomed, and such terrible cold bloomed from its white fur that Roran thought he'd die. "Then die!" And it leaped, its silver fangs bared.

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**For info on what the Hounds look for, check Chapter 33 (I think) of Eldunari! And the last chapter will talk about who they serve and stuff! Yay! **

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	6. Chapter Five: Triumph

**Hi again! Alright, so right up front; I hate the bollocks out of this chapter. I don't like the way it flows at all. And it's short. But, in my defense, I managed to mangle my fingers, so writing is not easy at the mo. **

**And I hate school. **

**Bah. **

**To my betas: YOU ROCK. **

**To my reviewers: THE SAME. **

**Disclaimer: Not owning, still. **

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"For every defeat, there is a victory." -Proverb

Chapter Five: Triumph

Striding through the halls of his palace, Galbatorix kept his darkness around him, swirling, to send any simpering, groveling, _noblemen_ away. He was not in the mood to deal with his court, not at all. He wasn't in the mood to do much of anything, really.

Except killing.

Yes, he was in the mood to do quite a bit of killing.

With fire, perhaps. Or lighning. Yes, lightning had always served him well. It would do now. For a moment the King entertained brief thoughts of hurling bolts at pompous noblemen, watching as they caught fire and screamed.

Pushing thoughts of murder aside, Galbatorix continued on his journey to the dragon hold. In the two months since Belatona, the King had made the journey daily, to visit his prize.

He had not been defeated over Belatona, no. His armies had retreated under his command but it was not a loss, even though three of his Halflings had been killed and he lost nearly three thousand men. Despite these losses, it had been a victory, because Eragon Shadeslayer, the troublesome, impetuous brat, was dead.

It was slightly regrettable; Eragon had been a fierce, intelligent warrior, but his foolish heart betrayed him. He had flown across the sky to save his worthless brother's life and then lost his own.

_A stupid reason to die. _The King mused. Despite his unexpected valor in challenging Galbatorix to a duel, Murtagh was a lowly creature: weak-minded, too stubborn, and inflexible. He had been dying, lightning coursing through his body, falling and falling without end, and if his brother hadn't interfered…

Still, Eragon's death had proved to be very profitable in the long run. Murtagh was now the leader of the Riders, as crippled on the outside as he was inside, and the Varden was nervous, leery of the red Rider and his band of misfits.

The dragons that had fallen from the sky to fight in Belatona were one of the reasons for the King's persistent black mood. Five dragons and four Riders did not just _appear_ out of nowhere—they had been hiding for a century, squirreled away somewhere, and that was unacceptable.

The old green one—Ophelia—had been the leader of the pack, obviously, but, if memory served, she and her Rider had been killed in a failed attempt to escort younglings into hiding. Or not, as she had most definitely been alive until Shruikan killed her. Her Rider had died, but she had not. Morzan had left her to die but someone interfered and she didn't perish, instead hiding in the Spine with her band of cowards.

Her younglings, though, were young no longer, and apparently back in fighting shape. The spies reported daily flights and mock-combats among the dragons and their Riders, and a few of them, particularly the orange dragon Konungr and his mate Sunna, were proving to be nearly as fierce as Saphira and Thorn, who had been raised fighting.

Galbatorix seethed. The Varden now had an aerial combat unit, and dragons outmatched Halflings, when claw came to fang. The King now had ten Halflings—only three of which were originals. Saphira or the newer Riders had killed all the others, but Fanghur were not too hard to capture and transform.

The dragonhold was almost full to bursting, what with Shruikan living in the center and the ten Halflings scattered all about him, and the cage.

It was a thing of beauty, the cage. Seeing it lightened the King's mood considerably. It was a work of genius, of centuries of knowledge compounded to form something that hadn't been needed since the Fall of the Dragon Riders.

It was a Dragon Cage, modified by Galbatorix himself. The bars were refolded steel, sharpened along the edges like a broadsword. Magic reinforced the steel, magic that could keep even a furious dragon at bay. Heavy steel cuffs and chains were attached to paws and wings and jaws, keeping the occupant contained. The dragon inside the cage was powerless, kept weak by spells, unable to break through the bars.

The whole thing shimmered with a strange, oily light, almost malevolently. It was effective, though. In the two months since she had been a captive, Saphira had not been able to escape.

Not that she had tried, of course.

Entering the great, noisy dragonhold, Galbatorix surveyed the blue dragoness and his black mood dissipated a little. She was his greatest prize, his greatest victory.

Saphira was bound, all four paws chained to the cage, her wings pinned to her sides. Her muzzle was left unbound—her fires could not get past the magical barrier of the cage to burn any standing nearby. She was half-curled, inert, her eyes half-closed and her body shuddering slightly.

Completely unresponsive, half-conscious, unaware. She was his for the taking.

_Saphira, my dear. _Galbatorix called, his voice filling her mind. There was no response, no reaction. The dragoness' mind was as vast as any dragon's but strangely empty, devoid of anything but weak flickers of agony that stemmed from the center.

Since Eragon's death Saphira had been little more than a wraith, a shadow. She did not know where she was or who she was, she simply existed, a swirling mass of agony and heartbreak and incompleteness, more dead than alive but so deliciously _pliable. _

_Saphira. _Galbatorix repeated again, and again, there wasn't even a flicker of recognition.

Delight surged in the King's blood, hot and heady, and he smiled. She was his to remake, to remold—he'd fill her emptiness with lies, with adoration for _him_, Galbatorix, and he'd erase every little bit of Eragon Saphira carried within her cracked, broken soul and he'd make her his dragoness. She'd serve him willingly; she'd be the leader of the Riders, the mother of her race. All would bow in her presence -honor her- honor him as deserved.

Shruikan hummed in dark pleasure, picking up on the King's thoughts. Images of dozens of dragonlings flitted through Galbatorix from Shruikan, and the ebony dragon growled hungrily.

_In time, my friend, in time. _Galbatorix told his dragon indulgently. _First we need to win her trust, to bring her over to our side. _

_That won't be hard. _Shruikan grumbled darkly. _Saphira has lost her Eragon. She's broken. _

_And we shall mend her. _The King intoned, savage glee in his voice. Idly he reached through the magical cage and stroked Saphira's brilliant scales, trailing his fingers down her neck. _Soon. _

_Soon. _Shruikan agreed. His eyes slid closed again and the dragon fell back asleep, growling to himself.

Galbatorix took one last look at Saphira and smiled to himself. He had seen dragons without Riders before, and they were sad, broken creatures. Many lost themselves completely; losing their souls in the calamity that was the shattering of the Rider-bond.

And that made them vulnerable. It was how Galbatorix conquered the Eldunarí; they were lost in their pain and weak, and controlling them and breaking them to his whim became frighteningly simple. He lied to them and fed them twisted bits of affection and they served him willingly, at first, until they realized who he was, but by then it was too late, they were bound to him, chained body and soul.

They could not escape.

The other occupants of the dragonhold, the Halflings (Galbatorix was rather taken with the name, for all that is was invented by his enemies), flexed their dirty talons and scrambled around the fringes of the cage, snarling and shrieking and mocking Saphira.

They would dart in and snap at her, then bolt away, remembering, through shared consciousness, the feel of her sharp talons or biting fangs or blistering fire.

But the blue dragoness did not move; she didn't even register their presence, and the Halflings were growing bold.

Tresia, the violet-eyed Halfling belonging to the Earl Tariku, the King's right hand, was the bravest. She would leap the closet, her teeth almost making it to Saphira's prone body, before backing away slowly. She never actually bit Saphira, because Galbatorix had fiercely impressed that she was not to be hurt, but she came close.

Which wasn't surprising, really.

The dragoness who now inhabited Tresia had been known as Brynhildr Thunder-Eater, one of the few assigned Warriors—the secret contingent of fighters sent to obliterate Urgal villages or desert tribes. She had been a fierce foe, and her Eldunarí had been one of his prized. Brynhildr had also been one of the rare dragons with an indentical twin, Amodá Shadowwalker, a Spy of great prowess. The two violent dragonesses were prized, but both had better uses than sitting in the treasury, waiting to be summoned.

Brynhildr had been the first Eldunarí to be bonded with a Fanghur. The process was a tricky one, involving deep, dark magic and ritual sacrifice. When the correct words were spoken over freshly spilt blood, the Heart entered a state called the Welding, and it was promptly shoved through the chest of a bound, pinned, often-screaming Fanghur.

The dragon magic inside the Eldunarí then changed to fit its new host body and the Fanghur instantly grew to the size of a year-old dragon, sometimes bigger. The scales rippled and hardened, the wings grew, the claws and teeth sharpened. The Eldunarí suffused the body with a strong arcane power, and the eyes changed.

By the end of the transformation, the newly born Halfling was irrevocably bound to the Eldunarí, which had become twisted and dark themselves in the transformation. All that remained was to hunt down the descendants of the Eldunarí's former Rider.

That was often the difficult part—memories had to be thoroughly scanned and picked clean and then a tricky bit of Tracking preformed, and then the closest living descendant had to brought back to Uru'baen, beaten, broken and then bound to the Halfling.

The bonds were sloppy at best, but they worked, and the Halflings and their Riders were competent enough.

And Tresia was the most successful. Brynhildr's ferocity had transferred bodies quite nicely, leading to a bloody-hungry, intelligent warrior.

Stroking Saphira one last time, the King turned sharply on his heel and the various-colored Halflings flocked to him, awaiting orders.

Two of them, dark gray and black creatures with orange and black eyes, came the closest, sensing a prospective mission.

Their Riders, a former sergeant in the Imperial Army called Dunlath and a lean, wiry hunter from Therinsford known as Shiyver, stood from were they had been lounging against the walls and padded up to their Master.

"Take your beasts and go to Belatona." The King ordered, almost carelessly. "They are sending out regular patrols that draw nearer and nearer to the fishing villages, and we need those to supply Dras-Leona with food. When you spot patrols, kill them all. Your stealth will aid you. I want the Varden to be trapped in Belatona, starving, by springtime."

"Yes, Master!" Both men cried, bloodlust starting to shine in their eyes. Their Halflings leaped and snarled, their long bodies twisting happily. Though the beasts, particularly the younger ones, did not really have a clear grasp human speech, a consequence of their half-Fanghur minds, they understood emotions, and their Riders were emitting savage glee and bloodlust.

The other beasts caught on and began to leap into the air, circling and leaving the dragonhold, crowing their dark intent to the entire city.

Feeling pleased with himself, Galbatorix exited the loud hold and continued on his way down the hall, thinking.

The two dark Halflings, unimaginatively named Shade and Shadow by their Riders, were masters of nighttime stealth. They would creep up on the Varden's patrols and slaughter them.

Dras Leona really did need the fish, and it had the added consequence of striking terror into the rebels. Terror was good. Terror made the enemy forgetful, timid. Their attacks on outposts and villages would cease and, hopefully, keep the meddlesome Lady Nasuada and her pet, Roran Stronghammer, inside the city walls, unable to get fresh food.

Already Galbatorix had scared away all the game with magic, and now the fish would go.

It was a simple, beautiful plan, really. Fear and hunger would make the Varden weak, and then in the spring the King would crush them, grind them into dust, and add at least four of the six Dragon Rider pairs to his collection.

Murtagh and Thorn would have to die. They had been disloyal, and they would have to pay the consequences. A public execution would force the others into submission.

And the youngest pair, the two-month old green male and his interfereing elf Rider Arya, would probably have to die as well. It had been Arya who had kept Saphira's egg, Arya who had survived Druza. The former princess had broken into his palace and freed Eragon and stolen the green egg. No, she was far too loyal to Eragon to be swayed. But the others could be broken. They _would_ be broken, and then they would serve him faithfully.

His dark mood almost completely banished, Galbatorix allowed some of his rage and hate to leave him, lightening the cloak of magic that swirled about him.

He was calm, controlled. His plans were on track, he had Saphira, soon he would be able to form a bond with her, and he had another weapon up his sleeve.

Hanging a sharp right, he made his way through the residential area of his huge palace. Here his top officers and servants were housed. Tariku's quarters were the largest, appropriately. The man was probably sleeping or planning—he had done just that since the Battle of the Falling. The former tribesman had nearly killed himself, using a complex bit of magic that Galbatorix was, quite frankly, surprised that Tariku knew. He had sleep for three weeks, then woken, then slept more.

But he was on the mend, and he would be up and about, strutting like the peacock he was in no time.

The other half-Riders lived in the other rooms, all smaller than Tariku's. Most were in the dragonhold and the ones who weren't did not concern the King. His goal was the room farthest away from the Earl's, the room with a wide window and a view of most of the city.

He knocked politely on the door, a rare thing, for him, and waited. Inside he felt her mind, and he (again, with uncharacteristic gentleness) nudged.

The door opened.

"Majesty." The voice that floated from the dim room was a woman's, and Galbatorix arranged his face into something resembling fatherly affection and walked into the room.

It was dimly lit, a low lantern burning. There was a shelf full of books and a magnificent bed with silk sheets, and a half-eaten pile of food on a desk. A young woman and a young dragon, no more than two months old, lay on the bed.

Two pairs of purple eyes watched the King, and he smiled.

"Hello, Elva."

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**Tada? Still hate it, but it's a necessary filler, and several of you have been asking about what happened to Saphira. Now you know!**

**Review, if only to tell me off for writing such shit. **

**~WSS**


	7. Chapter Six: Longing

**Hello again, darlings. First off, I want to sort-of apologize. I didn't mean to leave you guys, but I did warn you that updates are going to be considerably less frequent. College started again, and it's time-consuming, if anything. But I am sorry, and I'll try to be better, okay?**

**Also, I feel bad- I left this story alone for so long because I was incepted by Inception and am now up to my neck in that fandom. Er, oops?**

**Okay, I want to thank you, all my delightful, delightful readers. You guys go above and beyond every time, and it's nice. :D The reviews are thoughtful, the feedback excellent, and just all around spectacular. You are seriously the best fans in the world. 333333333333**

**I was given some questions but I can't remember them- my email, for some reason, purged all my folders, in which I keep reviews and stuff. So, if you have questions, please PM me or drop a review or something, and I'll answer to the best of my ability! Thank you so much!**

**To my betas: You guys are the best. I love you. You are invaluable to this process. **

**Disclaimer: I am not CP. Not even close. **

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"And we stand  
So close but yet  
So far  
Caught in the middle  
Unable to move forward  
Or back  
Needing what we  
Cannot need  
Wanting what we  
Cannot want."

-_Need_

Chapter Six: Longing

_The air was dry and cool, brittle, almost like the forest after a fire. It was still winter, but this land, this dry, treeless land, was barren of snow. The grass underfoot was shriveled and brown and the dirt was hard and caked to the earth, the waters, few and far between, were slow and low. _

_The animals, the strange, foreign cats with spots and manes and the deer that leaped like rabbits, the horses with black and white stripes, the huge, hulking graya creatures with heavy tusks and long, long trunks, were everywhere, however, wild and fierce and unafraid of the traveler. _

_Of course they were unafraid—they had never seen a two-legged being in living memory, as the traveler had discovered when he looked through their minds. They didn't know what his people could do—they didn't know about the dangers of arrows and swords and the fires that elves set. They didn't know about the Light, the magic that was so much stronger now, so much more powerful in his people that every day the elves cried out as one of their own died, claimed by the laws of a power far greater than any they had ever experienced. _

_Even here, so far away from the ancient forest, the traveler felt the aftershocks of powers ripple through him, the waves of fires that burned through their setters, of waters that drowned their makers, of souls swallowed whole by a void, and emptiness that sucked their life away. _

_The powers of the dragons, the wordless magic, the strong Light, burned in his people now, and it was killing them because they did not understand. _

_But he had no time to wonder about them now—every second of every day he was drawn on, deeper and deeper into the dry wildland, through the herds of striped horses and the maned cats, through the barren fields and the drying streams. _

_He couldn't fight it any more. He didn't even look back, didn't ache for his mate and his family, his friends. There was only the way forward, the path on, and there was nothing left behind him, nothing but the ashes of a terrible, terrible war. The dragons could not find him here, they could not bare their teeth or breathe their fire. He was safe as long as he kept walking, kept learning and journeying and discovering. _

_The wind brushed his face, dryer than anything he had ever felt, and he kept walking, the beat of his feet a rhythm, a warrior's drum, the calls of the animals and the roar of the wind ringing in his ears…_

Murtagh opened his eyes and found himself standing alone in a dark room, leaning heavily on Zar'roc, pain firing up his leg and shadows swirling behind his eyes.

He swayed, terribly confused. This was not his current home—this was a dark room in the keep, a secure room, bound with powerful magic. This was a hidden room, the doorway covered by a statue. This was the room that held the Eldunarí and the dragon eggs.

And Murtagh had absolutely no idea how he got there. He had been in his room, lying on his bed, staring glassily up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the paint and the fat spider that busily spun her web, thinking about the rather disastrous meeting with Arya.

Said meeting had started with violence and ended with violence. The green-eyed elf woman had been furious at him to start with; she blamed him for Eragon's death and her newfound, raging emotions had gotten the better of her. And then he had told her about his meeting with Faolin, and received a few painful (though not very dangerous, fortunately) wounds for his trouble.

Murtagh had honestly felt that he had been making progress with Arya, however. He had convinced her to lower her sword, to accept that he was not her enemy. He had even extended his clan's offer to her and she had not thrown him out, at least until he saw the map and opened his damned mouth.

He should have known better, really. There was a time to speak and a time to be silent, and he had spoken when he should have been silent and then he had been forced to beat a hasty, limping retreat. Arya had become irrationally angry when Murtagh told her that he had dreamed about the map.

She had sort of bared her teeth at him and slashed him again, this time on the arm, and she couldn't be calmed with words, so Murtagh wisely left to avoid further injury, because he wouldn't attack her back.

But he hadn't received any answer about the map, and it was _bothering _him. He had dreamed of those places, of the wide, wide plain and the lake that was as large as the sea. He had seen them, smelled them, felt the cold air on his face and heard the wind whistle in his ears.

Every night he saw them, walked them, and to find a map, an ancient, cracked thing, with those places drawn out, had nearly killed him, had sparked his familial curiosity and he had almost taken the map and fled.

But, being crippled, he wouldn't have gotten far and Arya's retribution would have forced him to fight back, and he had put it down and left.

He kept seeing it though, imprinted against his eyes, the cracked, peeling paint, the wide plain and the sea-lake and the almost-desert-like land, and the hints of a golden forest, and it was driving him mad.

Murtagh had been there, in the forest that was bursting with golden light. It had been a dream, or so he thought; he had passed out on the battlefield, his body full of lightning and burnt things, and he had stood on the soft earth and talked to his brother while the sweetest birdsong filled his ears. He had seen a river that flashed with a thousand faces, and he had seen something else too, something large and dark that stood in the river and forced the waters to bend around it.

That forest, that was the _end_, was what the traveler in his dreams was searching for. It was what Arya was looking for too, Murtagh _knew _it, in the same way he knew that he was being pulled away from Belatona, away from his clan and his duties.

His skin itched, his fingers twitched, his eyes kept looking towards the east, towards the sunrise. All day he had been distracted, had been tortured by the agony in his leg and the tug in his bones, the force he could feel dragging him towards the plains and the lake and the desert-grassland and the forest.

And quite frankly, he was tired of it. He was just plain tired, too, far more tired than he had thought. He had been sure that he wouldn't sleep, that the call would have kept him awake through the night, attempting to drag him from his bed. But he had dozed off and dreamed again and now he found himself in the most important room in all of Belatona, the Rider's Treasury.

And he was still confused.

This room was full of important possessions. Here were the Eldunarí and the scrolls that Griffin the Gray One had found or had brought to them. These scrolls had the Rider laws and legends inked on their parchments, had the ancient spells that had formed the basis of Rider life. Murtagh did not know where the blonde, bearded man had recovered the scrolls. To his knowledge, all of them were burned when Galbatorix came to power. The mad King had destroyed everything, had burned libraries and towns to the ground to erase the remnants of the Rider era. But yet, there were still scrolls, smelling like must and moths, sitting in front of him, words that could shape the future of Alagaesia.

And Griffin had had them.

Murtagh wasn't sure what to think of Griffin. He was remarkably well-informed, deeply connected in Uru'baen. He knew most of what went on in the City of Sorrow, probably thanks to his brother Jarn, and he knew when and where the Empire's raids would hit. Jarn was the same; mysterious and well-informed. And the third brother, the shy, thin one, Lore, would turn up every other week or so, laden with scrolls and maps and information, darting away as soon as he had handed over his burdens to Griffin.

The three brothers—or cousins, or half-brothers—were powerful. They were the Last Ones, the direct descendents of the Gray Folk, the little-known beings who bound magic to the ancient language when one of their own almost destroyed the world with his (or her) power. And as such, the trio mystified and confused Murtagh. They felt _old_, ancient, like relics of the past, crackling and humming with a power he himself would never understand. He was wary of such power, nervous around Griffin or even the twitchy Lore.

But they were useful, despite being confusing and a little frightening (not that Murtagh would ever admit to that), so Murtagh was content to leave them alone, as long as they didn't threaten his family.

The Treasury had its scrolls and its Eldunarí, around twenty of them, all pulsing and glowing and brushing up against his mental shields but not trying to breach them. Most of the Hearts were still wary of him because he had used them, had taken their powers like Galbatorix.

He was trying, though, to be better, to be kinder and to not use any Eldunarí unless they offered their assistance.

Two of the Eldunarí, the bright gold and the cerulean, were at the front of the collection—Glaedr and Sirocco, the two "leaders" of the Hearts, so to speak.

They prodded his mind curiously, but Murtagh shut them out. He couldn't deal with them at the moment—he was too busy trying to figure out how he arrived in the Treasury and why.

He looked around, blinking, swaying, his mind whirling, his dreams flashing before his eyes. He stepped deeper into the shadow, looking around, and his bright eyes settled on the greatest treasures in the entire city, for the entire resistance. Tucked away in the corner, surrounded by a powerful, pulsing reddish enchantment, which Murtagh cast himself, lay six dragon eggs.

They were silver, black, blue, red, yellow, and one was a strange sort of marbled gray-white. Five of them had been in Ophelia Kindmother's possession. She had taken them with her when she and Deloi and Talon finally abandoned their cave home, hidden them, and then after her death Deloi had brought them to the Varden for safe-keeping.

Three of those eggs, the black, red, and marbled, were from the Fall, taken and hidden from the Forsworn's raids. Two others, the blue and the yellow, were Ophelia's own offspring, magicked into waiting for their Rider to appear.

And the last egg, the silver egg, had been, at one time, a living dragon named Kimerlun. He had been captured and slain by the Forsworn, his Eldunarí forced into submission and then later given to Murtagh and tied to Thorn.

Galbatorix had created a black spell that bound Kimerlun's ancient magic to Thorn, and when the words were spoken, Thorn _grew_. His body aged due to the old magic, and Kimerlun's spirit grew younger and younger, his Heart shriking until he was hatchling-sized, his magic pure and untamed.

And then the King had reached in to that pure power and seized it, twisted it, and somehow managed to create a living egg from the soul.

Such magic defied the laws, defied everything Murtagh knew. It even baffled Griffin and Lore, the carriers of the old magic. It did not seem possible but it was, because Kimerlun lived.

His egg was waiting to hatch to a Rider, and he was as strong as any of the other eggs. And these eggs were the future, were the reason for fighting. None of the others in his clan knew where he had hidden the eggs—no one but Nasuada knew, and she had a way of killing herself if she was captured.

Murtagh watched the eggs for a time, marveling at how the lights from the Eldunarí reflected and refracted off the eggs. It was beautiful, memerizing, even. He could feel his eyes start to slide shut and he swayed, caught up in the power of the room and in the remnants of his dream.

He felt the dry wind on his lips, heard the roars of huge cats and the cries of horses, the stamp of feet on dry earth.

He saw the lake, flashing, a piece of unbroken glass, and the plain, blanketed with snow. And at the edges of his vision, he saw the twinkling of golden light, heard the rush of running water—

"Who are you?" A harsh voice interrupted Murtagh's thoughts, snapped him awake, and he jerked, rocking to his left foot to lift Zar'roc.

Firelight washed over the room, and Lady Nasuada, the only other person who had the ability to enter the Treasury (it had been the terms of the treaty forged between the Riders and the Varden) peered at him suspiciously, gripping her sword, until she recognized him and relaxed.

"Murtagh." She said evenly.

"Lady." He replied, just as steadily, even though his mind was scrambling to shake free of the images and his senses were reeling. The sight of her was almost overwhelming—after a day of living in dream, of seeing far-off lands instead of the one in front of him, she was startlingly _real_, her edges sharp, clear cut.

Murtagh could smell her too, the faint trance of something flowery and of the spiced tea she was fond of. He almost stepped back but found he couldn't. He was caught by her realness, and he stayed.

"What are you doing here?" Her tone was not hostile, only slightly curious.

_You should be angry with me. _Murtagh thought sadly. _Why aren't you? Everyone else seems to be. _

"I don't know." He answered honestly. There was something about Nasuada that made him tell her the truth—it had always been that way, even when he was a prisoner in Farthen Dur. He couldn't lie to her. He didn't _want _to, which was worse, because he couldn't afford this, couldn't deal with whatever this was. He was a warrior, a cripple, a broken man. He had Riders to lead and a war to win.

And Nasuada could get him to walk away, to leave it all behind, probably with one word.

And damn her, she knew it, too.

She tilted her head and studied the red Rider thoughtfully. "Can't sleep?"

"Can't stay sleeping."

The silence fell between them and, for some reason, it cut like a knife (or lightning). Nasuada shifted, her torch throwing light into the deep recesses of the Treasury. Murtagh watched her, his sword still half-raised, half-expecting her to rage at him, to call him a traitor, and egg-breaker.

She didn't.

They stood awkwardly apart, the air around them humming, his hands white around his sword, hers shaking eversoslightly.

The tension was almost unbearable. It had been like this for the last two months—always sidestepping, skirting one another, never making eye contact, always shrinking, running, hiding. In meetings they could barely look one another in the eye, could barely speak to each other. The only time they had had a genuine discussion was when Nasauda asked him to bind his clan to the Varden and he refused.

And now they were in the Treasury, in the middle of the night, clinging desperately to weapons and hurts and still not looking each other in the eye.

"How did you get in? None of the guards saw you." Nasuada said carefully.

Murtagh shrugged. "I don't know." He replied softly. "I don't remember falling asleep."

Again the silence fell between them, heavy and uncomfortable, and Murtagh couldn't help but laugh bitterly.

The Lady of the Varden watched him, surprise flickering across her face.

"Where would we be if the Twins hadn't betrayed us, that day in Farthen Dur?" He asked her, still smilingly lopsidedly. "If the Urgals hadn't killed your father and taken me?"

Nasuada looked away, at the glittering Hearts and the eggs and the ancient scrolls.

The red Rider could almost see it, in his mind's eye—He and Nasuada, by a river, in the forest. She was not the Varden's leader and he was not a Rider. They were simply warriors and that was alright, because they were free of the stress and the grief and the pain that they had been handed. They were talking, easily, and she was laughing.

They were holding hands, by the water, and something in Murtagh shuddered and groaned.

In another time, another world, they were lovers, friends.

A surge of hate flooded Murtagh, hot, irrational. He hated the Twins, for betraying the Varden, so long ago, below Farthen Dur. He hated Galbatorix, for causing the war, for fracturing the world and everyone in it. And he hated himself, because he was damaged and wounded and hurt and there was nothing he could do about it, no magic he could cast to mend himself or the world.

Nasuada's face was impassive but her eyes were soft.

"Maybe things would be different." She said quietly. "My father would be alive. Eragon might still be alive. But we wouldn't be _us_, would we?"

Murtagh blinked, drawing back slightly.

"You wouldn't be the leader of the Riders. You wouldn't have Thorn or a family that looks after you. I would still be just Ajihod's daughter, a woman, not the Lady of the Varden. We wouldn't be here, in Belatona, with winter closing in and our warriors tired but strong."

Murtagh let her words sink in, and his bitterness made his chest ache.

"We'd be different people." She continued, and, almost hesitantly she stepped forward, into his space, and he was torn between leaning in and pulling away.

"Would that be a bad thing?" His voice was so soft it was barely a whisper, but she heard him. He couldn't voice what he was trying to say, trying to get across- maybe it would be easier if he had never been captured, if she had never been forced into becoming a leader.

She understood, and her hand came up, her fingers (trembling) an inch above his skin. She looked him in the eye and took his breath away. "I don't know."

And they didn't—they were simply two people, two humans, hurting and broken and scared, and they wanted something they couldn't have. _He_ wanted something he couldn't have. He longed for it, he ached for it, he saw it reflected in her dark dark eyes and he almost took it, then and there.

It would have been easy.

In his mind, he saw them, walking by a river, and how they laughed.

He closed his eyes. He had wanted this for so long—since he first met her, nearly three years ago, when he was a prisoner and she was a princess of sorts—and it was almost too much for him to handle.

His heart ached, his chest felt like it was being torn open.

He looked into her eyes, ice blue meeting dark brown.

He opened his mouth and any one of a thousand things could have come poring out (_I need you I'm afraid I can't do this Why me Why us I think I might be in—)_

"I can't." He said, and then, with a quickness that surprised even himself, he slipped around her and limped rapidly down the hall, his heart hammering and his eyes blurring.

The fire in his leg, the wound, caused him to trip, stumble, but he kept going, unable to be with _her _in a room full of lives cut short and lives not yet lived.

His throat filled with something heavy, something like sorrow, and then he was outside, trying to breathe in the clean air and not quite remembering how.

_I can't. _He thought, half-mad. _I can't do this. _

He shook and breathed and he felt It stronger than ever, the pull, deep and powerful and he almost followed it, almost took that first, shaking step forward towards the end and he would have never looked back. But something deeper than the pull, something in his soul, held him back.

Something was wrong.

And it was then, standing in the dark of the night, breathing wounded, heaving breaths, leaning heavily on his sword, that Murtagh noticed that something _vital_ was missing.

He reached through his mind, flicked through his thoughts, but there was _nothing_, was no familiar, comfortable prescence, no feeling of his other half at all.

Starting to panic, Murtagh called out.

_Thorn?_

And there was no answer.

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**... I am an evil person. **

**Yes. **

**Review!**

**~WSS**

**Oh, and there is intential symbolism with Murtagh and Nasuada in the Treasury. It's one of Murtagh's themes. See if you can figure it out!**


	8. Chapter Seven: A Silver Fang

**Hi! I'm back, after what, three weeks now? So this chapter is rather short... I almost feel sort of bad, because I wanted it to be longer, but it had other ideas... The next one is already longer, though, so never fear!**

**Um, I have been informed that this chapter is a little weird. My apologies?**

**Many thanks to all you loverly reviewers! You keep me going, guys, I swear. 333333**

**BIG NEWS- Two days ago, it was my FFN birthday! That's right! I've been here for two years now, and it feels great! I feel like I've grown alot and my writing has matured, and that's so great you don't even know. So, in honor of my FFN b-day, I'm going to be updating a lot of things today and tomorrow. Like, all of my chapter fic, really. IGNEUS TOO, for those who have been asking. :D**

**To my lovely betas Arya Shadeslayer and chupacabrita, thanks so much! You guys are so helpful ~ 3**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance. **

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"And its teeth were long and terrible, bared, glittering in the night... It was a thing of fear, and its mission was death." -_The Tiger_, Jo Ann White

Chapter Seven: A Silver Fang

Roran hit the ground with a thump, scattering snow and ice around him as he rolled, pressed flat against the snow as he struggled to breathe.

The Hound, the nightmare-beast, surged above him, missing him, landing with a thump several feet away, prey-less and angry. It spun, snarling, and Roran climbed to his feet, fear making his heart stutter, drawing his hammer.

The Hound lunged again, nearly invisible against the snow, only the angry crimson of its eyes and the silver flash of its teeth giving it away.

With all the force he could muster, Roran brought the hammer up and bashed it down on the snout of the beast, knocking it aside.

It fell, snarling brokenly, its silver teeth cracked, strange, silvery, grayish blood weeping down its white fur. Its muzzle was broken, shattered completely.

And then it _healed_.

Bones snapped back into place, teeth mended, sharpened, the weeping blood leapt back into the Hound's flesh.

"Foolish flesh-child." It snarled, its voice dark and grumbling, a warning of thunder. "Do you think your little iron toy will hurt me, whose blood runs with the ichor of stars?" It snapped at him, teeth dripping something clear and whitish, forcing Roran to dance back, nearly falling over in the snow as he struck again, this time cracking the beast's skull.

_Hounds have poison. _The general remembered, sickness suddenly swelling inside him. Hounds had teeth like snakes—hollow and filled with a kind of poison that burned and tortured, as they were Death's seekers, sent to do their master's business of hunting in the world of the living.

_Funny. _He thought, leaping to the side as the Hound, it's head mended, came at him again. _An hour ago, I had forgotten the stories._

The Hound snarled angrily, apparently frustrated with its prey. "Come now." It coaxed. "Give me what I want and I will kill you painlessly."

"I don't know what you want." Roran lied, because he _knew_ what the Hound wanted; it wanted the fire-monster that Eragon had carried, that Eragon had flown with across the sky, that had been there, in the forest of ice, all glowing eyes and terrible heat, snarling at him.

The Hound smiled, horrible teeth flashing. "You lie, Fire-child." It said, and it went low, a blur against a blur, and leaped, crashing, and Roran couldn't roll out of the way in time—

The thing hit him square in the chest, knocking him back and he howled in pain, struggling to bring his hammer up.

The teeth, dripping with their poison, flashed towards his face; he leaned away, his back sinking into the icy snow. Sharp claws tore at his shoulders, scrabbling, peeling away flesh. He cried, his blood reddening the snow, and, with all the force in his body, smashed the Hound across the head, jerking it aside.

It rolled from him, snarling in pain and rage, and he drew back again, landing a blow to its head, and another on a shoulder, then on a paw, then three down the neck and spine, the ribs, the stomach.

The Hound rolled and rolled, flailing, snarling and yelping, its streaming, fog-colored blood spilling and melting the snow.

The storm outside the clearing whirled, kept at bay by a terrible power that spilled from the wounded monster, that smelled of ice and cold and death. Trumpet's black hide was nowhere to be seen—the horse had run, then, fearing the servant of Death.

_Smart horse_. The general had time to think, before the Hound, broken, snapped wildly and he jerked, still half-crushed under it's weight, beating at it again and again and _again_—

With a shuddering gasp that was too human, the beast rolled from him and jerked, fog-gray-silver blood spraying into the snow.

Outside the clearing the storm shuddered, wavered, inched slowly forward, and Roran thought the monster must surely be dead, because he could see silver bits of bone and ruined, gray-soaked fun and _nothing _could survive that, not even a monster such as the Hound.

But there was the sickening crack of bone, and the gray-silver blood was fleeing back into the Hound and the fur was bristling with righteous fury again.

"I'll kill you." Thundered the Hound, dragging itself back to its feet. It coiled, it's teeth bared meanly, glittering, dripping. "I'll _kill _you, _aodhagán._" The strange word made the skin on Roran's body burst into gooseflesh and he shivered, involuntarily, as it washed over him. It was a word in no language he had ever heard, not Urgal nor human nor ancient, not dwarvish or the voices that whispered in the wind, sometimes.

Out of the corner of his eye, dead Garrow smiled wickedly.

_Tiny little fire. _Said the growling voice, in his mind. It hummed with pride. _It is the name for your kind._

_Who…? _Roran asked the voice, fearing it, truly fearing it, for the first time.

_You know who._

An image, Eragon with flames inside him, with coal-red eyes, flashed. Then another came, a great creature made of roiling fire, taking the shape of a dragon, snapping and snarling and _burning._

_You're what the Hound is looking for! _Roran shouted at it, the heat bubbling in his chest.

The Hound snarled in savage triumph.

_Yes. _Said the voice that belonged to the dragon of fire.

"_Aodh." _Said the monster, prowling a little closer. "I have you now." Its coldness swelled, grew, stabbing into Roran like knives. It tilted its great head back and, in the voice that drove the dead from life, called out.

_Uachtar. _Snarled the voice, pouring heat, and the ice pounded Roran's skin and he howled, lashing out, catching the Hound so fast in the face that it stopped, mid-howl, and bellowed in agony, turning, Death glowing in its crimson eyes, and the terrible, bone-slicing cold _surged_, and Roran saw a face there, in front of him, angry and dark, eyes two chips of ice or lightning, impossibly blue, and there was a man who was also a dragon, etched in blue-green, all the sorrow in the world spilling from It, and It was Death, and the Hound lunged, muchtoofast for the human general, who was reeling between fire and ice, its teeth biting so deep, so deep that Roran felt it in his very soul—

He screamed and fell, the Hound falling with him, its fangs buried in his flesh, the poison ripping through him, a sword of ice—

The Voice and its Fire roared, howled, and then, with the force of the sun exploding, ripped out of the human general, tearing through the clearing, rushing away and away, the heat blistering the Hound and the host.

_Coward! _The Hound screamed, its mouth still full of Roran, who was burning and burning—

_Eragon screams and falls, hurtling to the earth with lightning biting his heart—_

_It flees, desperate to escape Its brother, finds the falling body of the Fireson's brother, rushes in—_

_Something's wrong, the Fireson's brother is crying out, is half-killed with the lightning in his chest, and Death reaches for him, his hand ice—_

_It tries to run, to find another but it's too late, It breaks in half, one part staying with the dying boy and the other seeking Heat, and he finds it in a man who screams at the sky—_

_Death roars in rage and lets the Hounds go—_

Roran screamed and screamed, his blood freezing in his veins and he struggled, his hands clawing at the snow and the fur of the Hound, scrambling to bring his hammer up.

With the greatest effort he managed to swing and he struck and the the Hound came loose, howling in the language of the dead, it's face beaten in, already healing—

And then there was a war cry, a bugle, and black hooves broke through the haze, Trumpet bellowed his anger, lashing out again and again and the Hound twisted, trying to kill the horse but it had several broken teeth and one was missing entirely, it was weakening, the missing tooth still spraying the clear venom, the Hound was _choking_ on it—

Roran lurched to his feet, watching, hazily, already fading, as his horse battled the Hound. He, with the hammer that was dented and coated in silver-gray blood, raised it one last time at the battered, roaring, howling wolf-demon, and he _struck_—

There was a crack and the hammer came down with horrible force right in the center of the Hound's skull, burrowing through the hard silver bone and burying itself in the creature's head and the beast let out a terrible howl, a dying howl, the cold splintering from it like knives, and gray-silver blood spurted and it, with a great, shuddering groan, fell sideways, blood drooling from its mouth, its eyes rolling up and the awful crimson death leaving them.

The Hound fell dead, the hammer buried in its brain.

Roran sagged and fell to his hands and knees, his heart kicking, his blood racing, his shoulder on fire that felt like ice.

Blood fell from his wound and his mouth. His vision swam and his mind buzzed. The fire-thing was gone, he could feel it—cold was in him, was him, he was ice, and he couldn't escape it, it was him, now, always.

He saw and heard, with failing, echoing senses, that Trumpet, the brave, reckless thing, was stamping and snorting, pulverizing the body of the dead monster that was not getting back up because its brain was destroyed, was splattered out around the snow.

Roran fumbled, reached shakily for his bitten shoulder, and pulled from it a long, silver fang. He looked at it for a bare moment. It gleamed at him, slick with poison and his blood, the venom dripping.

His vision swam.

His heart pounded.

In the back of his mind, something was pulling and screaming. _Katrina. _

Roran collapsed, the poison tearing through him, pain and ice erupting from every part of his body.

And as he faded, he saw a pair of feet, booted, walking forward. They were armored and a crimson cloak swirled in the wind.

The storm had returned.

Roran knew no more.

"_You idiot!" Garrow shoved Roran hard, knocking him back. The younger man stumbled, glaring at his father, rubbing his shoulder, which ached horribly, for some reason._

"_Let me through." Roran snapped, through gritted teeth._

_Garrow shook his head, wild beard flying. "I cannot."_

"_Move, please, Father!"_

_The old man did not budge, stubbornness glinting through his dark eyes._

"_Why?"_

"_It is not your time!"_

"_It should be!" Roran was angry, irrationally so. He ached all over and behind his father there was light, there was a steady presence, comfort._

_It was cold, though._

_Awfully, terribly, painfully cold._

"_You idiot." Garrow repeated, and with surprising strength, he whacked his son over the head. "You bloody idiot. You should not have been there!"_

"_Where?" Now Roran was confused and aching, his shoulder burning in a way that felt like it was freezing. He rubbed it._

"_You couldn't trust fate to bring her to you." Swore the older man. "You couldn't let it be!"_

"_Let what be?"_

"_You had to go and—"_

"_And what?"_

"_And get yourself mostly killed!" Garrow bellowed, grabbing his son by the shoulders. "Do you know where you are, Roran? Do you know what happened?"_

_Roran frowned and shook off his father, his confusion and pain swelling. "Let me pass." He said, angrily, and he shoved Garrow, hard, and the older man stumbled because it had been three years and now his boy was a man._

_The bearded general peered past his father and saw a world without color, with gray grass and a gray sky, only bright violet flowers splashing life into the landscape. There was a river that was shallow and silver, and it flashed with faces and memories, thousands of them, and by that river sat a man who was washed out and gray but _familiar_, and Roran ached and longed to go to him—_

"_Father," he begged. "Please."_

_There was a hardness in Garrow's eyes as he spread his arms and stepped in front of his son. "I will not allow you to go." Said he._

"_Father—"_

"_You are not yet ready." Said the man firmly. He jerked his chin behind Roran. "Look around you." He ordered. "What do you see?"_

_Roran looked around and saw nothing but golden light and the gray field and the river and the man on the log._

_He looked at his father, a question in his eyes._

"_Go." Said Garrow, gently, fiercely. "While you still can." He grabbed Roran by the shoulders._

"_You are my son." He murmured. "And I love you. Do you understand? Go back, Roran. Go back."_

_And there was a pulling, a burning, almost, a cry, a scream in his mind._

"Roran!" _Someone was pleading. _"Roran, come back."

_Reluctantly, Roran backed up, watching his father who stood with his arms thrown wide._

"Roran." _Called the voice, sweet and loving and pain-filled, fear-filled. "_Please."

Okay, _Roran called to the voice. _I'm coming.

"Come." _Said the voice, said _Katrina, _that was her name, she was his wife, he loved her, he had gone looking for her in the wilderness and—_

_He had almost _died—

Katrina! _Roran bellowed, turning from his father even as it hurt him to the bone, as his father's eyes filled and the man on the log looked up, a painful mixture of curiosity and loneliness spasming across his face._

_Roran rushed away, from the cold and the gray and the river, through golden light, bursting from it with all his power, and the winds rushed around him, and he _breathed_—_

Roran woke spluttering, choking, whining in breathless pain somewhere dark and warm.

"Easy, stranger." There was a hand on his back, guiding him, and the bearded general felt the ice fire in his shoulder, hot-cold, agonized, and he shuddered and tried to get away from his own shoulder, the pain too much to bear.

"Hold him." That voice was sharp, hard. The hand on his back pushed him, struggling, down into the straw and he fought it, fought the hand and the pain.

Something was shoved into his throat—liquid that was syrupy and sweet flowed into his stomach and he choked, retching, but the hands held him down, didn't let him go.

"Please." He rasped, horrible agony too much in his shoulder. In his mind he felt heat, knew it was Katrina, feeling his pain, calling to him. He could barely hear her.

There was a face above his, a face with wild dark eyes and slightly slanted features. The drink that had been forced upon him was working, apparently, because Roran twitched and fought and could not stop his eyelids from dropping, his heart from slowing.

"Welcome back." Said the owner of the hands, curiously. "You gave us quite a scare, stranger."

Roran felt Katrina groan in his mind, and his shoulder ached and burned and he felt like Death had chewed him up and then spat him out again.

"Welcome to Outpost Command." Said the dark-eyed man. "I am Captain Huroc, of the King's Red Guard."

Roran blinked up at him, a dull sort of irony sparking in his fading mind.

_I'm with the Empire_, he thought, and then he slept.

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**~WSS**


	9. Chapter Eight: Whispers

***creeps in* Er, hullo guys. I know it's been a looooong time- over two months, I believe- and I feel horrible. I'd try and make excuses but exuses are like noses, so I'm just gonna lie down and you all can kick me in the face. Repeatedly. **

**To NotBob73- I freaking love you, whoever you are. You crack me up. 3 (and don't worry, I love that bitch too. and rorangst is kind of my new favorite word.)**

**To - Lol, my roommate informs me that I am a terrible dictator. **

**To The Fire in Which We Burn- I was attempting to carry a desk up three flights of stairs. We got about halfway before Dan let go, and I got pinned. It broke three metacarpals, my hamate, and my pinkie and ring fingers. On the plus side, I can now predict rain. **

**To fanficfan1037- Molly says thank you. :D**

**To Unlanguage- I have no idea what that means, but thanks!**

**To Doctor Octangapus- If you want to get technical, you can't really have dragons with hearts that can exist outside their bodies, or swords that burst into flame, or elves or dwarves or Urgals, either. And for the record, calling someone a jackass doesn't make you sound tough or whatever the hell you're going for. **

**To Lina- Thanks!**

**To everyone else- thanks for the support and the love, and I'm very sorry about all this waiting. While you're kicking me in the face, could you aim a few at RL, plzthx?**

**This chapter is not beta'd. It might be at some point, but right now I'm not even going to send it off. If you're reading this, chupacabrita and Arya Shadeslayer, I'll send you any new ones, but right now it's just not happening. I love you guys, though!**

**Also, I'm going to go back and edit Eldunari- HUGE UNDERTAKING. If anyone wants to volunteer to help, I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER. **

**Yes. I wouldn't expect an update until past January 12, at least, because after this I have to finish my Inception_Bang fic WHICH IS A MONSTER, GOD. Just a little heads up. :D**

**Also, I hate this chapter. I feel like I've lost my touch with this fandom (goddammit Inception) and I have such huge writer's block it's ridiculous. Bah. Just bah. **

**Dedicated to NotBob73. 3.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance. It's CP's. **

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"You hear the whispers, see the signs, and can't tell the difference between what is true and what is false." –Anonymous

Chapter Eight: Whispers

The Varden was in chaos.

Men and dwarves and Urgals ran to and fro, shouting, panicking, passing messages and trying to whip the frenzied force into something organized.

Roran Stronghammer was missing.

He had disappeared sometime during the day, charging off with his demon horse. A guard on the watchtower had seen him go the previous morning, but he had assumed that the general was on important business and that he didn't want to be disturbed.

But Roran hadn't told anyone where he was going or why, and he'd been missing long enough that now the Varden was in a panicked uproar.

Arya watched them run from the shadows of the Burned District, Faolin sitting at her side.

The soldiers swarmed the keep, the streets, turning over every stone, knocking on every door, their voices ringing.

_They almost worship Roran_, she thought to herself, watching. And the Varden did—Roran was a hero and a legend, a warrior who was as strong as a Rider but didn't have a dragon. He was their rallying point, a symbol of hard work and determination, of the ordinary man rising up and fighting against tyranny.

And now he was gone.

_Like Eragon, _the traitorous little voice in her head whispered. _The Varden's lost two of its heroes now. How much more can they take?_

_Roran is not dead, _Arya told the voice, pushing it away. Faolin sent a question through the link, raising his emerald head and looking her in the eye.

_He's not, is he? _Faolin said, looking around him. _He went off by himself, to do something._

_He's a tortured man, _Arya murmured, rubbing her heart-partner's scaly head. She remembered the Roran she saw when she scryed him—the nervous Roran, who twitched and flinched at shadows, stared at empty spaces. She'd seen him talk to doorways and throw tables across the room, fighting a demon only he could see.

Arya wondered what ghosts haunted Roran, the pride of the Varden. What did he see that scared him, that drove him out of the safety of Belatona and into the world?

Snow drifted lazily from the sky, coating the scurrying Varden. Sharp, biting wind blew in from the north, bringing ice in sheets.

The trail was going cold.

Lady Nasuada had sent a search party for Roran, elves and Urgals and a few hard, dedicated men, but Arya knew that the snow would cover his tracks, and then no one would know where he was.

He could die, and the Varden would never know, or worse, be captured by the Empire before his allies found him.

_Are you going to Nasuada now? _Faolin asked, butting her gently.

Arya sighed. _Yes_, she said. _We must. I can scry Roran, try to figure out where he is. I have to help. _

The young dragon snorted in agreement, shaking the light dusting of snow and ash off his shoulders. _Let's go_, he said determinedly, and stepped out from the Burned District.

Arya followed, her hand on his shoulder, breathing deeply.

In two months, she hadn't left the safety of the Burned District. She'd stayed away from crowds, only seeing two people at a time, at the most. The Varden was everywhere, thronging, bunching. They shouted and screamed and Arya almost turned around and went back to the quiet and solitude that the destroyed area of the city offered her.

But she could _help_, and Roran was Eragon's cousin, a good man, and an asset to the Varden, and Arya had spent eighteen years helping the Varden and she wasn't about to quit when they needed her most.

The Varden didn't take too much notice of Arya at first—there were bigger dragons and more well-known Riders roaming around, and she wasn't doing anything to attract attention to herself.

Soon, though, people began to notice. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, slowing them down as they stared at the pair.

_Why are they looking at us? _Faolin asked.

_They're surprised that we're out and about._

_I think they should stop. _Smoke rolled from his nose and his sharp tail twitched nervously.

Arya scratched his shoulder fondly and kept her head high as she waded through the crowd, pushing for the keep. The people parted, watching her, whispering. The Rider could feel their curiosity, their shock, heavy on the air.

Their voices mingled, and she heard her name, Shadeslayer, Drottningu, over and over.

Suddenly, one of the Riders, the quiet elf Vé, was at her side. He dipped his head to her in greeting and stared at the people clustering around Arya and Faolin, his eyes hard and flat.

"You wish to see Nasuada?" He said, and his voice was gentle and mellow. A fine bow was slung over one of his shoulders and a bright yellow dagger, one of Rhunon's creations, hung at his waist. He did not carry a Rider's sword, and Arya almost felt a burst of kinship for him.

"Yes," she told him. "I believe I can help her find Roran."

Vé tipped his head to the side. "Come with me," he said. "I'll take you to her. She is with Murtagh."

A rush of displeasure surged through her, and Faolin pressed himself comfortingly against her side. "Murtagh," she muttered.

The other elf's eyes were serious and thoughtful. "Come," he said, and he guided her through the crowd as the people parted to let them pass.

He led her into the keep, which was quieter than the town, calmer, though Arya still tasted the edge that hung there, the sharp worry and fear.

"Nasuada is waiting for you," said Vé. He touched his lips in the tradition of the elves and studied Arya seriously, turning something over in his mind. "When we were Riders, we would say '_go with light at your back_' to each other, as a good-bye."

"Are we not still Riders?" Arya asked, startled.

The older elf offered her what might have been a bitter smile. "No," he said. "We are not the Dragon Riders we were before. Too much has changed."

Arya looked at him, searching.

_I understand, _Faolin said, nosing her. _Go with light at your back, Vé. _

Vé nodded and bowed slightly. "Go with light at your back, Drottningu, Faolin. I will see you again." He turned and went back into the city, leaving Arya and Faolin on the steps.

_I understand too,_ Arya murmured. Vé was right—too much had changed. _We are not the same as we were. _She looked at Faolin and bitterness swelled in her belly. _As we could have been. _

Faolin touched her palm, gently, his emerald eyes wide and liquid. _Probably not, _he agreed. _Don't be sad. _

Arya said nothing. She began to climb, Faolin at her side, his talons clicking on the stone. _I can help, _she thought. _I must help. _

At the top of the stairs, she went to the door guarded by the Nighthawks and they stood aside, faces still and serious. The door swung open.

Inside, Murtagh paced in his odd limp-step, clearly agitated. Nasuada too was anxious; she wrung her hands and stared out the window, and the sight of their anxiety was disturbing. Both were intensely private people- Arya had only seen emotion on their faces a few times.

Murtagh saw Arya and Faolin first, and some primal part of the elf woman was pleased to see a flash of wariness enter his eyes. He was clearly remembering their last encounter, which ended with her sword at his throat.

"Arya," he said coolly, flattening the expression out of his face. He continued to pace, though.

Nasuada looked up. "Welcome," she murmured, distractedly. "It is good to see you out and about."

Arya dipped her head, licking her lips. She understood that some—most, really—resented the time she spent alone in the Burned District. They believed that she, now a Dragon Rider, a trained warrior and magician, should have thrown herself into the work of the Varden.

Maybe she should have. She could have helped them rebuild, could have offered guidance when many were crushed by Eragon's death.

Faolin, sensing her thoughts, pressed assuringly against her leg.

"Why are you here?" Nasuada asked, dragging a hand over her face. She looked tired, and Arya wondered what she herself looked like.

Murtagh paced, watching with his bright eyes.

"I can help you," Arya began, slowly. "I can scry Roran."

"You know him well enough to find him?" The Lady of the Varden's tone was skeptical. "I wasn't aware that the pair of you were such good friends. Unless you plan on pulling a memory of him from someone else?"

"I've been scrying him," the elf admitted. "Since Eragon—" a lump caught in her throat—"died. I wanted to keep an eye on him, see how he was coping."

Nasuada and Murtagh were both silent, studying, all their attention fixed on the elf Rider. Faolin sneezed.

"I know him well enough by now to see him, at least, and confirm he's alive. If someone is talking to him, we can get a clearer idea of where he might be."

"Do it," Nasuada said.

Murtagh shot her a look that Arya could not define, and Nasuada looked right back.

"Yes," the red Rider agreed after a heartbeat. "It's better than nothing. We can't track him in the snow—his scent is long gone," he told Arya. "The hounds and the dragons are at a loss, and Du Vangr Gata hasn't been able to find any magical trail. We tried Griffin, but he's nowhere to be found and I'm not sure he can track a non-magician anyway."

"Exactly how long has Roran been missing?"

Murtagh stopped his pacing, rubbing his leg and shrugging his shoulders. "The last person to see him was Thrald Hersson, a young messenger. He delivered a letter to Roran here, in front of the keep, yesterday morning. Roran took his horse and no one has seen him since."

"What did the letter say?"

"We don't know. Roran took it with him and the messenger did not open it."

Arya heard the 'we' in his statement and knew that it meant Murtagh and the Varden. She bristled—he thought himself as one of them, after his betrayal, after he'd killed dozens of them, attacked his own brother in front of them.

Faolin, picking up on her anger, crouched lower, his teeth bared slightly. Murtagh turned away from them.

"Do you need water?" Nasuada was already standing and calling out for the Nighthawks, and Arya soon had a bowl of clear, sparkling water sitting on the desk, ready to be a channel.

Murtagh watched with his sharp eyes.

Arya cleared her throat softly and Faolin settled down beside her, his long tail scraping the stone.

_If Murtagh tries anything, I'll bite him_. Faolin promised. Arya scratched his green head.

_I know you will. _

"_Draumr Kópa." _She murmured, and waited.

The water changed almost immediately, rippling and distorting. She was looking at whiteness and Roran was there, lying in the center. He appeared to be unconscious and several bandages wrapped themselves around his torso. In one hand he clutched a long silvery thing—a sword, probably, though it was too curved to be a normal one. Voices twisted around him.

"Never seen anything like it before," one voice said. "I dunno what it was, but it was _huge_. Looked like a wolf, but it had to be the biggest one I've ever seen. It was horse-sized, it was, and it had these great dirty red eyes…"

"It was probably one of the King's creations," a second voice added. "One of his experiments."

"Wouldn't he send it after the Varden, though?" The first voice argued. "I mean, it killed an Imperial soldier and there are no reports of rebel activity in this part of Alagaesia. If it was one of his, he'd send it off to do some damage."

"It's a Hound." A third voice said, flatly. Arya blinked and the water rippled. Murtagh inhaled behind her and Nasuada stared sharply at the bowl.

"A Hound? Didn't know you believed in fairytales, Jencen." The second voice was mocking and annoyed.

"It isn't a fairytale," Jensen argued. "It's a _legend_. There's a difference."

"Oh, yeah, a _huge_ difference."

"Just because you haven't ever seen one doesn't mean it's not real," Jensen said, calmer. "If dragons can exist, why can't Hounds?"

"Great big wolves? Death's own messengers and hunters?" The second voice sounded angry. In his sleep, Roran twitched. "That's something my mum threatened me with—go to sleep, Derek, or the Hounds will get you. Eat you corn, Derek, or Death will send his hunters. _Stories, _Jensen."

"You didn't see this thing, sir." The first voice interjected. "It wasn't a normal beast, sir. I've never seen anything like it."

"Don't Hounds have poison?" Derek asked. Arya imagined that his face was red and angry.

"What do you think hurt this poor lad?" Jensen said. "Poison, like a snake's." There was a sloshing sound, like water in a jar. "I drained this out of him—he's lucky there was a magician near by—and it's almost exactly like desert snake poison."

The first voice made a frightened sound.

"So what you're telling me is," Derek said slowly. "We have a Hound, one of Death's own, running loose, attacking people?"

"Well it's dead now," Jensen said. "I'm not sure how. This lad, he must be some kind of fighter, to defeat such a monster."

"Well then," Derek snapped waspishly. "When he wakes up he can tell us all about it. And since he's such a good warrior, he won't have a problem joining us. The Empire can use men like him."

Arya let go of the spell in shock.

"Oh _shit_." Murtagh swore, and behind her Arya heard a crack and the scrape of metal on stone. "_Damn _them all."

"Yes," Nasuada agreed, and her face was gray under her skin. "Roran's in the hands of the Empire."

Arya didn't say anything. She chose to cling to the edge of the table instead, her face white and her hands shaking.

_Hounds,_ she said. _Death's Hounds. We're dealing with _fairytales.

"Where could he _be?_" Nasuada ran a hand through her hair, alarm sparkling in her eyes. "Why would he just leave like that? Didn't he _learn _from what happened to Eragon? Didn't he know what happens to people who just up and leave by themselves?"

_Hounds_, Arya thought again, and anxiety and confusion rippled through her. _Stories. _

_What are Hounds?_Faolin asked anxiously, picking up on Arya's swirling thoughts.

_They are human legend, _she said. _And dragon lore too, probably. According to the stories, they are great white wolves with red eyes who were created by Death to be his hunters and messengers in this world. They stalk and hunt, and when the time is right, they attack with their poisonous fangs and drag their paralyzed prey back to Death for judgment. _

Faolin shuddered nervously. _You don't believe in them, _he said, almost desperately.

_No, _Arya told him, softly, instinctively reaching out to him. _Elves don't believe in stories. _

_But are they stories? _A voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother whispered. _How do you know that Hounds can't exist?_

_Shut up, _Arya told it viciously. _There's no such thing as Hounds. _

_Or Death? _Whispered the voice. _Or a land of Death? _

"That letter made him leave," Murtagh was saying loudly, more to himself than anyone. His sharp voice brought Arya out of her stupor. "Clearly it had something important to him—what's important to him now? Eragon is _dead—_" Arya pretended that she didn't hear the pain in his voice "—and Carvahall is destroyed, so what could make him abandon the Varden?"

"Katrina," Nasuada said suddenly. "His wife Katrina. She was with the Varden for a time, but she left when she found out that she was pregnant. She's all that he has left now, really."

Everyone in the room felt the pang, the gaping hole that was Eragon. For a moment, their eyes locked, and then Arya looked away, aching, angry.

"Where is she now?"

"South."

"So that's where we should search," Murtagh said. "Roran is smart—if he was travelling he would go to the forests, stay in the shadows as he went down towards Surda and the sea. He can't be any farther south than the mountain, he's only been gone two days, and even if he rode as hard as he could he couldn't get farther than that."

"And he's not anywhere near Feinster," Nasuada added. "The Empire is nowhere near there; I just received the reports."

"Alert the scouting posts," Arya said, finally shaking herself vigorously and joining the discussion. "Any post between here and the mountain must be searching for Roran, as well as keeping an eye out for the Empire."

"I'll send Konungr and Sunna," Murtagh said. "Maybe Deloi as well. If they find any Imperial camps, they'll destroy them."

"And if they find Halflings?"

Murtagh smiled a smile that was hard and sharp. "We have been training, milady," he told Nasuada. "My clan is strong. We can each fight of a Halfling or two. When claw comes to fang, a dragon outmatches a Halfling."

"Send them, then, if you wish."

"Done." Arya heard roars echo—apparently the red Rider had sent his directions and his clan mates were responding. She ignored what could have been a stab of jealousy and turned to face Murtagh.

"Wait," she said. "Why aren't you going?"

Murtagh looked at Arya darkly. "I would like to," he said. "But at the moment, I have no dragon."

"No dragon?"

"Thorn is missing also."

Faolin made a nervous sound in his throat.

"As far as I can tell, nothing has happened to him. He hasn't been captured or attacked." Murtagh's face was smooth again, unreadable.

Arya wasn't sure if she felt pity for Murtagh or disdain. On one hand, the thought of not knowing where Faolin was made her ache in her chest, and after losing Eragon Arya was sure Murtagh was already nervous and tense. But on the other, what sort of Rider lost there dragon?

"We don't have time to talk about this any longer," Nasuada said, not unkindly. "I need to go send out messages to all the scout posts between here and the mountain."

Murtagh dipped his head. "Very well," he said. "I'm going to try and scry Thorn again."

"Good luck," Nasuada murmured, and something passed between the leader and the Rider that Arya couldn't define. The Lady of the Varden disappeared out the door in a magnificent swirl of color, shouting orders to her Nighthawks.

"So you decided to come out of your den, I see." Murtagh was staring at Arya, his bright eyes sharp and piercing.

She automatically felt herself stiffen, coil. She was tense and angry, ready to hurt and attack, should Murtagh give her the opportunity.

"You can't go back now, you know," the red Rider said, limping closer, his tone almost conversational. "You might think that you can, but now the Varden's seen you, and him." He gestured at Faolin. "They won't let you go back to your solitude—they'll see if as a betrayal."

"They left me alone for two months," Arya pointed out.

Murtagh smiled humorlessly. "Yeah, but you were grieving. They were willing to let you grieve. Now you've come out and you've helped us, and you have to keep helping us or the Varden will see it as a betrayal."

"I'm not the traitor here," Arya snapped. Faolin hunkered beside her and growled softly, warningly.

"The Varden won't let me rest either," Murtagh assured her. "I'm in the same boat you're in—any mistake on my part will lead to cries of betrayal. I can't rest long, I can't disappear, I can't do anything but work where they can see me."

Arya stood very still and very straight, pride making her shoulders stiff. "I will never give the Varden reason to doubt me," she said.

Murtagh studied her, his eyes sharp. "What about when you leave them?" He said, slyly. "When you go off to find that forest that you're looking for?"

"Get out," Arya hissed at him, fury crackling in her eyes. "Just get out."

Murtagh offered her a bow. "As you wish," he said, and turned to limp for the door.

Arya shook, angry, and Faolin growled unhappily, and Murtagh seemed to pause, just for a moment, at the door. "My offer still stands," he said lowly. "My clan would be happy to have you."

"Leave," she told him, and this time he did, the ring of his sword against the stone stairs echoing.

_Who does he think he is? _Arya muttered to Faolin, angry, shaking, _seething_, really, and she had no idea why. _The Varden has stood behind me for almost twenty years—what reason could I give them to turn on me? Even if I go to look for the golden forest, it will be to find Eragon, to help the Varden. _

_But will they see it that way? _Faolin said, meeting Arya's eyes. He nosed her gently.

_Yes, _Arya said firmly, her hands curling into fists. _They will. _

She ignored the little voice in her heart that said _will they_? mockingly.

Faolin made a sound in the back of his throat, and through their bond, Arya couldn't tell exactly what he was feeling. Confusion, definitely, her own anger reflected back, hurt, bewilderment.

Everything was swirling in Faolin, everything he had picked up from her—confusion and anger from Murtagh, hurt from Eragon's death, bewilderment because she felt like she was living in a fairy tale, where Death and Hounds were real and everything she had been told was wrong, was a lie.

_Elves don't believe in gods, _Arya thought to herself. _We see that it is not possible for gods to exist, for something to create the world and then abandon it. _

_But what are these rumors? The soldiers clearly saw _something_—was it a Hound or was it one of Galbatorix's experiments? _

It was not beyond Galbatorix to create a creature, through magic, that looked like one of the Hounds of legend. Considering what he had done to Fanghur, it was actually likely. Perhaps he had taken Shrrg, the great wolves of the Beors, and turned them white, made them hungry, and released them into the land. It would create fear, terror, bring whispers of a demon across the country. People would be afraid, vulnerable—perfect for Galbatorix to prey on, to pressure.

People who were afraid were people willing to give money or time or lives.

_Yes, _Arya thought to herself, _that's it. There's no such thing as Hounds, as demons that serve Death. _

_Keep telling yourself that, _the voice in her head whispered. _What about the poisoned teeth, hmm? It doesn't make sense. _

_It does, _Arya told it, and she pressed her hand against Faolin's head.

The green dragon looked at her with his wide, wide green eyes. _You keep saying that Hounds don't exist, _he said, slowly. _But what if they _do_? What if you're wrong?_

Arya swallowed, and the voice in her head laughed softly. She didn't have an answer.

* * *

**Bah. **

**3**

**~WSS**


	10. Chapter Nine: Raltin

***creeps* Er, hi everyone. Sooooooooo this is awkward. I suck. I really, really do. And I am very, very sorry. You all can beat me up now... **

**Part of the reason for the three-month hiatus is writer's block. I'm kinda _stuck. _I know where the story is going- oddly enough, I have the epilogue written- and how I want to get there. The hard part is _actually getting there. _But I'm working on two chapters right now simultaneously, so the muse has not abandoned me yet. Hallelujah? **

**So most of this chapter wasn't written until about five days ago, when I recieved a review from StrawHat, who told me that Book IV has been named and is coming out in November. I was like "Psssssh, this is _CP _we're talking about, he's not done yet."**

**And then I check, and hey, whaddya know, Inheritance _is _coming out in November- I have eight months to _get this done_ before that happens. So yeah. If this chapter (and the ones that follow) seem a little odd, it's the caffiene. I've had roughly twelve pots of tea since Friday. **

**With that said, I want to thank all of you who've stayed for sticking with me, kicking me in the ass, and generally harping on my lazy, lazy butt until I got up and wrote something. You guys are the greatest people EVER. I LOVE YOU ALL. **

**To the Eldunari Betas: Okay guys, I'm gearing up for this whole editing thing. Expect PMs very, very shortly! Thank you for your service!**

**Thanks to Arya Shadeslayer for the beta and the confidence boost! You, my dear, are fantastic. :) **

**Also, thanks to Restrained. Freedom, as always, for your unerring support in everything I write, not just this story. :) And for helping me figure out how to bypass the error system! It's thanks to you that I actually got this chapter up!**

**Dedicated to StrawHat, for inciting the panic and opening my stupid eyes. I gotta beat CP with this guys, I _gotta. _**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. **

* * *

"Wrestling with the devil  
Playing games  
buring bridges  
burning promises  
All you have to do  
Is watch your back…  
Times like these it's hard to see  
who your enemy is  
who your friends are  
So watch your back."

-Kara, _Watch Your Back_

Chapter Nine: Raltin

_The earth was cool beneath his feet. His sandals had finally given out after seven months of near-constant walking and no amount of magic could salvage the frayed, broken leather. _

_The terrain had evened out into endless, soft grass a week ago, though, so the traveler didn't mind. The dirt was cool beneath his toes and after so long in the heat of the grasslands, it was welcome. _

_He was walking over another gentle hill, enjoying the feeling of green grass against his weather-roughened skin, listening to the sounds of a gentle stream bubbling not far from where he was walking. The water was clear and clean, far brighter than anything he had seen even in Du Weldenvarden. The animals here came up to him, their eyes bright, shining, and there was no rain, not that he'd experienced, but the land seemed to thrive without it. _

_He knew, deep in his chest, where the urge to go on was pulling at him, insistent, that he was getting close to the end of his journey. _

_He was almost glad. It had been months since he had seen his mate, his family and friends. He missed them, even though he knew that, when he returned (_if_ he returned) that it would be a different world. The elves had had enough time to bond fully with the dragons by now, to meld their souls and minds and hearts, and when he returned to them, they would not be the same. _

_Already they were stronger. The magic of dragons was given to all, when before only some had been born with it, and they were a wilder people, faces longer, ears sharper, senses growing and stretching. Even here, hundreds, maybe thousands, of miles away from his people, the traveler felt these changes. He saw at night when before he could not, he smelled what he had never smelled before, he heard the sounds of the animals before they came close. _

_And in the water he saw his face, longer, almost hawk-like, his cheek bones angled and his eyes slanting where before they had not. His ears were the same, fortunately, tapered at the ends, and he was glad that at least the dragons had not taken those from him. _

_He had been one of the lucky few born with natural magic, with an ability that had only been strengthened by dragons. He felt it, that wild edge bubbling in his blood that was his own magic but stronger, far stronger, than it had been. _

_He assumed that it was the same for all elves everywhere._

_It almost hurt him to think that he would come home to a different world. His friends might have become Dragon Riders, might have bonded their souls to the beasts that destroyed so much of elvish life. _

_The traveler knew that the dragons were not monsters—the elves knew that no thing was truly evil—but he could not erase the memory of his people screaming as they burned, crying as they were torn limb from limb. _

_It was Eragon who had saved them, Eragon who had sold his own soul and chosen the life of an in-between, a creature of both worlds. _

_The traveler hoped he was happy. He knew he would not be, bonded to a dragon. The traveler had seen his whole village go up in flames, and the thought of glittering scales and teeth and claws made his skin tight and his heart hurt._

Don't think such things, _he thought to himself, and instead he felt the grass under his feet and the animals that wandered around him, and he heard the sound of the water and he felt the tugging deep in his bones. _

_He closed his eyes, briefly, and felt his pain and his weariness stir in his heart. _

Please, _he thought_, let me be close to the end.

_And when the traveler opened his eyes, he saw, in the distance, flecks of golden light. _

Murtagh awoke with a gasp, and then he promptly fell to his knees and threw up.

His stomach was rebelling, throat spasming, fingers curling and uncurling uselessly in the harsh cold underneath him.

He couldn't breathe.

His lungs burned and he gagged, trying to calm down, to settle his stomach.

_Thorn! _He shouted, instinctively, but the dragon did not answer because he was still gone.

Finally, after a minute of retching, gagging and shaking, Murtagh managed to get his rebellious stomach under control and he collapsed, face pressed against something very cold and comforting.

He felt like he was on fire. His chest was too tight and his damn leg burned, shuddering underneath his fingers.

_Angvard take Galbatorix, _Murtagh thought, shivering, his stomach still churning and his skin too hot. The lightning wounds throbbed, burned, and his mouth tasted like ash and prickles raced down his spine as he shook like a weak newborn.

When the fierce, burning ache finally started to fade and he could_ move _again, Murtagh wearily opened his eyes, and the first thing he noticed was that he was outside.

Again.

Barely suppressing a groan, he rolled over, staring up at the black sky. The heavy clouds hid the moon and the stars so it was pitch dark, the kind of blackness that clung to the skin and choked the air.

The snow underneath him wasn't uncomfortable, just cold, and against his hot skin it felt _good_. He was somewhere outside Belatona, because he could see the pricks of fire the sentries used to warm themselves and see out into the night.

He was going to have a serious talk with them in the morning. They obviously weren't paying attention if a sleeping crippled man could limp past them.

It took Murtagh a few seconds to sit up and look around. He was in a field, one of the many of Belatona, and the dead grass was tramped down by the snow.

The wall was maybe a half-mile behind him, the lights glimmering faintly along the top. He could see his own footprints for maybe five feet before they faded. He closed his eyes.

He was exhausted. The dreams of traveling, of walking for months and months, on and on until he didn't know the stars in the sky anymore, wore him out. He wasn't sleeping anymore, not really. He was walking.

He tugged a hand over his face. Stubble scraped his skin roughly. He hadn't shaved since Thorn left.

_Thorn, _he called quietly, tugging at the bond between them.

There was no answer. Thorn was gone, far out of Murtagh's reach. He wasn't hurt or in trouble, because his Rider would have felt it, but he was gone, and the absence was yet another ache in Murtagh's chest.

_I should go back, _he thought. _It will be morning soon. _And if it was morning and he wasn't there where the Varden could see him, they would think that he'd run again. With his hold on his clan already fragile and under scrutiny, he couldn't afford to let them think he'd betrayed them again even for a few minutes.

If he did, he would lose the Dragon Riders, and frankly, they were one of the only things keeping him going. His clan was small and young, mostly inexperienced, but that was part of their appeal—he was _teaching _them and they were learning. He was living up to Eragon's legacy.

He loved the Riders. He loved being with them, and he loved the Varden even though the vast majority hated him in return.

_They'll understand one day, _Murtagh thought. _I hope. _

"What are you doing out here?" A sudden rough voice startled Murtagh so badly that he turned and nearly fell over, his leg sending fire racing to his brain.

"Raltin," Murtagh snapped through clenched teeth, recognizing the other immediately. "I could ask you the same question."

In the near-darkness, the red Rider couldn't make out Raltin's shifty eyes or soured expression, only the thin, wiry man's general shape.

A soft growl let him know that Talon was there also, his indigo scales melting into the darkness.

"I asked first." Raltin's soft, dark voice was unmistakable and Murtagh had to physically squash the urge to snarl. Raltin was, out of all of the Varden, the one Murtagh worried about the most. The man was ambitious, fierce, and _intelligent_, surprisingly so for a hill man.

He also hated Murtagh. If it was just hate, Murtagh could handle that. He'd been hated his whole life—one more time wasn't really a problem.

Unfortunately, it was much, much more than that.

"Walking," Murtagh replied, as nonchalantly as he could.

"Where's Zar'roc?"

_Damn him. _"I'm trying to walk without it."

"You can't even stand," Raltin said cruelly. "I see you wobbling. You're _weak_."

"Remember who you are speaking to," Murtagh snarled. "I lead you, Morlansson."

"By default," the other sneered. "_You _weren't the one we chose to follow! We only follow you because your brother died and you're the second-best option."

Murtagh barked a harsh laugh. "True," he said. "But do you remember what happened in the courtyard, right after Eragon died?"

Raltin was silent. His eyes would be narrowed and he would be clenching his fists, reaching almost reflexively for the dull metal sword he kept at his side.

"You had your chance," Murtagh plowed on. "I asked you if you wanted to take my place. You did not step up."

They all clearly remembered that day—Murtagh had challenged Raltin, and Raltin had stepped down, seeing that he did not have the support of the other dragons and Riders.

Talon snarled softly, his claws scratching softly at the snow.

"You think you could lead them better? Erik and Vé and Lovissa? You think they would follow you before they followed me, Morlansson?"

Raltin's lip curled, though Murtagh couldn't see it. "They don't know any better," he snapped. "They've lived in a cave for a hundred years."

_Perfect, _Murtagh thought. _I can use this._

"So have you, Raltin," Murtagh said as gently as he could though his teeth were gritted in pain and magic was slowly seeping out of his skin, warning the indigo Rider not to try anything. "You and Talon have lived in the caves for your entire partnership. Fighting a war like this is still new to you, and most of the clan. Thorn and I have been fighting our whole lives."

Raltin was still silent.

"You don't have the experience to lead the clan," the red Rider continued. "You are still very young."

"Older than you," Raltin said suddenly. "I'm twenty-three and Talon's four. We're older than you and Thorn."

"I'm not talking about age, Raltin." Murtagh kept his voice as calm and gentle as he possibly could, trying to force the tension out of his rigid spine. "I'm talking about experience."

In the dark, Murtagh felt more than saw Raltin nod once, very slowly.

"You should go back," the wounded Rider suggested. "It will be light soon. We have work to do in the morning." _I win._

"If I were to attack you right now," Raltin said softly. "Would you be able to stop me before I crippled you again?"

Murtagh froze.

"I don't think you could," Raltin pressed on, almost conversationally. "You might be able to, though, and that's what's stopping me from attacking you right now."

Talon snarled and it was a dark, warning sound.

"You're talking treason," Murtagh snarled, calling his magic. It rushed and bubbled to the surface, hot and bright and wild. "Betrayal."

Raltin dipped his head. "Yes," he agreed. "If we were normal soldiers, it would be rebellion. But we're Dragon Riders. It'd just be the order of things, wouldn't it? The strong usurping the weak."

"Do you think they would accept you?" Murtagh made his voice cold, chilling. "If you attacked me, crippled, tired, and weaponless as I am, would they support you? You don't seem to understand, _Morlansson_. Eric and Vé are my _friends. _They trust me to lead them, to keep them safe. If you strike me now, they will _never _trust you like that. You'll just be another Galbatorix to them."

"Don't _ever _say that!" There was the _shing _of a sword sliding free of its scabbard; instinctively Murtagh hissed a spell and dragged the blade from Raltin's hands.

"Watch yourself," he said lowly. "You are a good warrior, Morlansson. We could use you, and in a few years, you could be great. But do not make the mistake of thinking that we _need _you."

Talon snarled something and Murtagh threw a spell at him too, pining him in place. The dragon roared, but he could not move.

"If you threaten me or any member of the clan again, Morlansson, we will throw you to the dogs." Magic billowed around him in flashes of light, swelling until the air burned with it.

For the first time since the Battle of the Falling, Murtagh felt _powerful_.

"_I _will throw you to the dogs."

Talon made an angry sound in his throat and Raltin hissed through clenched teeth. "Tyrant," he spat.

"I am going to leave now," Murtagh said strong and clear. "If you try and attack me, if I hear you behind me at all, I will do my damndest to kill you, do you understand? I will drive you to the gates of Uru'baen and leave you there."

Raltin laughed, high and hard. "You think you can lead us forever," he said. "You think we'll ignore all your flaws forever. You think you could lead us better than Eragon?"

"Shut up," Murtagh said quietly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's not nice to insult others?"

"My mother is dead," Raltin snarled.

Murtagh blinked. _Mine too, _he almost said.

"Morzan did it. He burned my village to the ground when I was a child. You're the son of a monster, and you're a monster too!"

The scar on his back seemed to tingle and Murtagh smiled sharp and humorless. "I know," he said. "Remember what I said, Raltin. _All _of it. We could use you. We want you to be a part of our clan, to be a part of the Riders. You could be great with us. You could be a hero."

Raltin did not reply.

Murtagh sighed heavily, tired and aching. "Go," he said wearily. "Be gone. I will see you at noon."

He cut the spell holding Talon and the dragon bared his long white teeth menacingly.

Murtagh did the same. "I fought Galbatorix, little dragon. You don't frighten me."

Raltin made a sound in his throat and wordlessly clambered onto Talon's back. The ink-dark dragon snarled one last time and unfurled his wings, beating them once, twice, and then the pair vanished into the sky, their minds fading rapidly.

Murtagh waited for several more minutes, his skin prickling and magic crackling around him, before he slumped, allowing his power to drain away.

_Shit,_ he thought.

The last two months, Raltin had been silent. He had been surly, of course, and bitter, gathering around him a small group of Varden warriors, but he had never expressed an outright desire to defeat Murtagh and take his place.

_He's very angry,_ Murtagh thought. _At my father, and at me. _Smiling bitterly, he fingered the top of the scar on his shoulder.

_Are you satisfied, father? It's been eighteen years and you're still hanging over me. _

Sighing heavily, he began the long limping trek back to Belatona.

_Raltin cannot defeat me, not right now. I am crippled, but I am more experienced and stronger than he is, and Erik and Vé are loyal to me. Even if I did fall, they wouldn't follow him. _

Lovissa, on the other hand, was a mystery. The elf-woman was respectful and obedient, but she was reserved. Murtagh could not seem to connect with her—every time he tried, she pulled politely away—and where her true loyalties lay was anyone's guess.

Murtagh personally suspected the elves, now that Ophelia was dead. Lovissa was not like Vé, who had chosen to leave the caves and accompany Murtagh and Eragon on their journey. She and Deloi had chosen to stay with Ophelia.

And Raltin and Talon.

He sighed again, rubbing his leg and keeping it stiff as the snow slowly soaked through his boots.

There was a good chance that, if push came to shove, Lovissa and Deloi would side with Raltin, and that was dangerous. That would fracture the clan and possibly send four able-bodied members of it to Galbatorix.

It would be disastrous.

Against Halflings and former pack mates, they wouldn't stand a chance.

_I must keep Raltin in the clan, _he thought, limping a little faster. _But how?_

He snarled to himself in frustration. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. He could lead hundreds of soldiers, but a group of eight was too—_small, _perhaps, too interconnected with each other for someone like Murtagh. A small group needed careful handling, otherwise there would be fights and fractures and divisions cut through them.

_Eragon could do it_, hummed the dark voice that lived in the back of his head. It sounded like fire and Morzan, rolled into one. _Eragon was strong enough. _

_I' m not Eragon, _Murtagh told it. _And you are not welcome here, creature. _

The voice laughed and Murtagh saw two coal-bright eyes gleam at him in the darkness. _How do you know I'm not a part of you? _

_I've seen you in others. _

_Eragon, you mean. _Bright lines of fire seemed traced the outline of a dragon and wicked glowing teeth bared in a grin. _You're certainly smarter than he was. It took him weeks to discover that I was not simply a figment of his tortured mind. _

_Don't talk about him, _Murtagh hissed at it, furious. _Be gone. _

The creature threw back its head and roared. _I am not one of your Riders, little human, _it snarled. _I am far older than any of you and your kind. You cannot order _me _to leave. _

There was the sound of claws scrapping against rough stone—the ice was cracking.

_Go, _Murtagh told it as strongly as it could. _I do not need you. _

_I saved your life, _said the creature, flickering slightly. Murtagh frowned. Now that he looked at it, it looked almost _fragile_.

_I am the one who dragged the lightning from your body. Remember that, child of fire. Remember what I did for you. _

Eragon _did that for me, _Murtagh told it savagely. _It was Eragon, not you. _

The lines of fire flickered yet again, wavering.

_It's too weak, _Murtagh realized. _Why…?_

_It is not your concern, _said the dragon. _It will be remedied shortly. _

_You have no power here. Go. _

_Keep thinking that, _said the beast as it faded away. _Don't turn your back to your enemies, little human. I will be waiting for any cracks in your armor._

And then it was gone, leaving Murtagh angrier and more alone than ever. The fire dragon left the scent of burning things in his nose and the echo of roaring in his ears. His skin tingled and he felt hot, like he was going to be sick again.

_Stay away_, he told the beast, but there was no answer. It was gone.

_I hate my life, _Murtagh decided, closing his eyes and dragging a hand down his face.

Fire-demons were talking to him and angry Riders were threatening him. Roran was still missing, Arya was a problem, and Thorn had apparently decided that Murtagh didn't need him and he could go off and do whatever he pleased.

And Eragon was still dead.

_This is a mess. _

He kept walking.

It was still dark enough that, with magic, Murtagh could open one of the smaller iron-wrought doors in the side of the wall—not everyone went through the front entrance, that simply wasn't _practical_—and slip inside, locking the door again behind him.

He limped back to his home just as the sun was starting to turn the horizon gray. The city, protected by its thick walls, was still dark and asleep, most of his neighbors (the few who remained, anyway) still curled silently in their beds.

No one had noticed him missing, then. That was good. He didn't need anyone to start to watch him. He had too many problems to deal with.

First and foremost among them was Raltin.

_How do I convince him to follow me? _Murtagh thought, pushing open the door to his current home and limping towards the bed. _How can I turn him away from betrayal? _

_He wants leadership. He wants to lead, to prove himself worthy… But who to trust him with? Think like Eragon. _

He sat down heavily, rubbing the injury to his leg. Very faintly he heard the fire-beast growl in the back of his mind.

_I'll let him lead a reconnaissance mission_. It was simple—give Raltin the opportunity to lead and make him feel useful and part of the clan while at the same time removing him from Belatona so Murtagh had time to _think _and come up with a long-term solution.

_Who to partner him with?_

Sunna and Vé were off the table, as well as Lovissa and Deloi. Vé and Sunna were too important to Murtagh to trust with Raltin, and he was not sure that they could fend off a surprise attack.

Lovissa and Deloi were too close to Raltin already; if the indigo Rider did end up turning away, Murtagh didn't want him to take the pair with him. They were the oldest out of the cave dwellers, now that Ophelia was dead. Their experience and support was vital.

_Eric and Konungr, then. _Satisfied, Murtagh laid back down to try at catch a few more minutes of sleep. _They'll be fine with him—they are strong enough to handle him and Talon, smart enough not to be fooled, and they'll try their best to make him feel like he's part of the clan. It won't work forever, but for now, it's a good plan. _

_I'll let them know when they get back. _

At least one problem was solved, then. Raltin needed a firm hand. He wasn't an enemy (_not yet, _whispered the fiery dragon), just an angry child. Murtagh knew about angry children. If they had support, had family, then they could be turned around. Raltin could be part of the clan.

_I'm doing the right thing, _he told himself forcefully. _I'm preventing him from becoming a traitor. _

_Keep telling yourself that, _the voice hissed softly. _When he cuts out your heart, remember who told you otherwise. _

_Go away, _Murtagh snapped at it.

The voice growled once, low and deep, and then it was gone.

_I'm doing the right thing, _he thought again. _I know it. _

But as he lay there, watching the sun slide up from his window, Murtagh couldn't shake the feeling that he was making a mistake.

* * *

**There are two more chapters on the way! I'm going to try and get them out by the end of the week, but with my track record, I better not promise anything... **

**XD If you have any questions, review or drop a PM! Thanks!**

**~WSS**


	11. Chapter Ten: Duty

**Hi again! Look, it only took two weeks this time! Aren't you proud of me? Also, this is a TWO-FOR-ONE UPDATE! Woo! (as you can see, i'm super, super excited.) I seem to have found my grove again, and each character has picked his or her path now. Hopefully it's a straight shot from here to the end. *knocks on wood* **

**Anyway, as always, a big round of thanks to everyone who fav'd, alerted, or reviewed! You guys are so awesome! :DDDD Every time I get an email saying [FFN Review Alert] Story: Edoc'sil, I do a little dance of joy. No seriously. I really, really do. Thanks so much!**

**An upsetting note: Apparently, _Eragon's Guide to Alagaesia_ (see, I do research!) says that Thorn was driven insane by Galbatorix's magic. INSANE. _MY _THORN. This is unacceptable. Seriously, I'm considering not reading Inheritance at all because of it. :/ He's my big red baby. How could anyone make him insane?**

**So I guess this chapter is kind of fitting, considering it's Thorn's POV. It wasn't planned, I swear. **

**Many thanks to Arya Shadeslayer, the most awesome of awesome people! And chupacabrita, if you are reading, are you still out there? I haven't heard from you in a while. **

**To the Eldunari Beta Squad: Either this week or next we're gonna get this show on the road! Thanks so much for your time!**

**Dedicated to my Thorn, because he freaking rocks, okay?**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. All its characters belong to CP. Apparently, though, since his Thorn is insane, the Thorn shown below is mine! _Yes! _**

* * *

"Oh please! he felt his heart say to him. Oh, please, let me _leave!_" - John Irving, _The Cider House Rules_

Chapter Ten: Duty

Thorn tasted the wind-blown-winter-air and hunched closer to the ground. Snow and ice clung to his scales and the wind blew the scent of people-blood-sweat-fear into his open jaws. His talons scarred the snow, splitting it open easily. He caught the sound of carts rolling, bumping down an icy road. A horse whinnied and a man yelled. Armor rattled on the walls and swords clicked against frozen-cold-stone.

Uru'baen was so close he could taste it.

The cold-white-snow howled around him, making him hunch deeper into the ground.

_Maybe, _he thought, slowing and carefully creeping around the cursed-King-nest-city in a wide arc. _This was a bad idea. _

The all-too-familiar reek of the city was strong, even five miles out. He could smell the Halflings, the humans, and the animals as he pressed low to the ground and cursed himself for his stupidity.

He didn't know why he was here. The Varden and the wounded-partner-of-his-heart were _not _here—they were in Belatona, and they needed him. There was absolutely no reason to be here, just wingbeats away from the dark-King-murderer and slavery.

But here he was.

Another blast of freezing wind rattled his scales and the spines on his back. He wished he had stayed in Belatona.

Murtagh needed him. The partner-of-his-Heart was strong but wounded, crippled by the white-hot-lightning that had almost killed him.

Thorn remembered those heartbeats-seconds-moments—screaming, roaring, Murtagh's body falling and falling. Mirrored agony in his own chest. Eragon and burning-fire-wings, howling for his half-brother-kin. _Fear_, thick and hot in his mouth like blood-fire, those five days when Murtagh slept and hovered on the edge of life.

Those had been the worst five days of Thorn's whole life. He never wanted to see anything like that happen again, to _anyone_ he cared about. Watching one's Rider-soul-partner die was unthinkable and terrifying and _wrong_.

Dragons were stronger than any creature in Alagaesia, even the Urgals and the elves. Dragons had wings-fangs-claws-fire, scales as strong as armor and world-will-magic that could shape mountains or strip the Names from living things. Dragons could raze anthill-cities and cook men where they stood. Dragons could fly so fast and so high that not even falcons could catch them.

Riders were humans and elves. Riders were only immortal through the dragons, only magical through the dragons, only stronger and faster than any mortal through the dragons.

Without the dragon, there was no Rider.

And so it was the strong-fanged-winged-dragon's duty to protect his or her heart-bond. This was the very center of the bond, of pack-nestmates-_family_. The strong protected the weak. The whole defended the wounded. The brave took care of the frightened. Dragons protected their Riders.

And Murtagh lying-hurt-dying in the field and on the bed, that was _wrong, _so wrong it made Thorn's armor-strong-scales bristle.

He'd been _powerless. _Murtagh, _his _Murtagh, partner-of-his-life-and-soul, had been dying, and he'd been completely unable to stop it.

His tail lashed the frozen-ice-cold-snow.

_Never again, _he thought. _Never again. _

Another sharp blast of wind slammed into him, forcing him to turn his head.

_At least I'm upwind_. _If I was downwind, they'd be on me already. _

Another gust brought him the iron-blood-smoke scent of the Halflings and his lip curled, revealing his long, long teeth. Bloodlust-battle-rage flooded his body, making his talons curl and his maimed tail thrash in the snow. Low growls spilled from his throat and he imagined ripping with terrible glee into the not-dragon-abomination-Halflings, tearing them to pieces in vengeance.

_Vengeance. _

The thought sent thrills down his spine.

_Revenge, _he thought, and curled his lip, letting loose a deep, rumbling snarl. His mind was full of bloody-dark-thoughts-dreams, of Halflings torn apart and Shruikan crushed underneath him, black hide torn open, of Galbatorix neatly beheaded and then devoured, of Saphira bellowing in triumph as she and Thorn flew wing-to-wing back home—

_Oh, _thought Thorn. _Saphira. _

She was here. She was trapped in the King's nest-city-den, lost and alone and _alive _when Eragon wasn't— the pain must be unbearable, she must feel so _alone _and—

_Oh, _Thorn thought again. _Oh. _

The winded howled above him like a wolf-dragon-god, rushing wildly over his scales.

Thorn didn't care; he was frozen in place, ice-cold-snow rapidly pooling around his feet.

_Is that why I'm here? _He thought, his tail lashing nervously. _Saphira? _

It made sense—she was the leader-of-the-pack, _his _leader. It was his duty as her strong-right-wing (and he'd _fought _for that position, with Konungr-of-the-orange-flame and over Belatona) to defend and support her to the best of his ability.

And she was captured and broken, her heart-bond-Rider torn from her in the cruelest way imaginable.

Thorn, as her strong-right-wing, was supposed to help her. That was how _pack_ worked. The whole pack was behind the leader-of-the-hunt, just like the leader-of-the-hunt protected the young-weaker-fledglings.

Thorn knew this. He knew it so deeply that it resonated in his bones-soul-being, pulsed in his blood and made the fire in his chest swell hot in the back of his throat.

He was here, at the gates of Uru'baen-imprisonment-slavery, for Saphira.

_It is my duty, _Thorn thought, hunched so deep in the snow that he was slowly being swallowed by it. _She is pack. _

Another gush of wind brought the iron-blood-scent crashing into his nose again, harsher this time, closer.

He bared his teeth.

_Vengeance, _he thought hungrily. _For Saphira. _How easy it would be—he was a dragon, noble-strong-fierce-as-the-storm, and they were half-breeds, worthless-blood-mixed-_pets_. He would be victorious, because he was young and strong and filled with the fire-of-duty and they simply were not. He'd tear them to pieces, bathe the city in their blood, shred them, burn their bodies and throw the bones to the dogs, leaving them howling and screaming for mercy that he wouldn't give.

He'd rip out their throats, one by one, starting with the leader-of-the-pack Tresia. It was just, after all. They took his pack-leader from him so he'd take his pack-leader from them.

Simple.

He actually spread his wings, knocking the snow loose, and tensed up to fly before his mind caught up with his instincts.

_I'll die, _he realized. _I'm just one, and it's Uru'baen. Galbatorix will either kill me or capture me before I can do anything. _

Waves of anger-frustration-regret rolled powerfully over him, keeping his wings frozen in half-flight.

He shook.

_I must help Sahpira, _half of him thought, boiling with primal-instinct-rage, crying out for _blood _and _vengeance _and _her here, by his side. _

_I'll risk everything—my freedom, and Murtagh's, _the other half argued, like a voice lost in the howling-wild-rage of a storm. This voice called for _patience, _for _strategy, _for _fly home and wait. _

Thorn could not move.

He wanted desperately to follow both paths, to somehow fly to Saphira's side and Murtagh's at the same time.

Pack-mate or heart-partner. Murtagh or Saphira. Either way, he'd _lose_, lose something so very precious, far more precious than any victory-conquest-battles-won, any hatchlings-born or pack-grown or life lived long.

Thorn remembered, vaguely, from his very short time as a just-born-hatchling, that he had once seen a hawk. It had been pinned by an arrow to the wall and it was screeching, begging for release. Thorn had been too little to help it, and so he watched it struggle, bound to the wall even as it longed for the freedom of the sky. Thorn was that hawk, caught between two Duties; dragon-to-Rider, pack-to-pack—

(_But no, _whispered a voice older than age, deepdeepdeep in Thorn's bones. _This is more than pack-nestmate-clan. This is _more.)

He wanted to howl. He _longed _to howl, to rage, to claw down the sky and the egg-breaker-traitor who hurt them all, hurt them so deeply that _this _was the result.

_We are cripples, _Thorn thought, still frozen like he was ready to push himself up and up into the wide-vast-swirling-sky. _All of us. _

And they were. Murtagh, Roran, Arya-of-the-elves, Nasuada, himself. They all were hawks pinned to the wall, stuck with arrows-swords-lightning-duty.

They couldn't escape.

_Saphira, _half of him cried.

_Murtagh, _howled the other half.

Pack or heart-bond.

And even here, just miles away from Saphira-of-the-blue-scales, who was beautiful and wild and fierce, the leader of all free dragons and _more, _Thorn knew who he would chose.

He had only known Saphira for a few months, and Murtagh, oh Murtagh was his _life, _from the moment he burst squeaking from his warm-cramped-nest-shell and their hearts and minds and souls were blurred together at the Bonding.

Thorn had already watched the partner-of-his-soul lie between life and death once, and he could not bear it again—if he went to Saphira now, in the center of the egg-breaker-life-stealer's nest, he would, at best become a slave, and then Murtagh would become one again also. This was worse than a thousand lightning-deaths. At worst, Galbatorix or Tariku or one of the Halfling-demon-monsters would rip him apart, and Murtagh would be left half, more crippled than he already was, and Thorn wasn't sure if he could handle it.

He couldn't go to help Saphira.

He had to go _back. _

Thorn turned and leaped into the sky, scattering snow and ice like that hawk scattered feathers as it tore itself free and fled to the air, screaming.

Thorn didn't scream, though. He made no sound as he turned and lunged into the sky except the sound of air shuddering under heavy-strong-wingbeats and the howl of wind as it slid over his body.

One beat, two, three, then twenty, then a hundred as he flew away from the anthill-city of Uru'baen, letting Saphira and pack slip away behind him.

_I am betraying her. But if I don't leave her, I leave Murtagh. _

He wanted to howl.

He almost did; he felt it boiling like fire-from-his-belly at the base of his throat. He wanted to keen, to mourn, to throw himself down and tear himself to pieces.

But Belatona was several hours' flight away, and Murtagh needed him.

So he flew and held the howls in, bottled them up until Uru'baen was a bad-nightmare-memory in the distance and the great plains spilled out below him, bled white by all the snow.

And then, alone, he let go.

_No no no! _With a roar that shook the storm-wind-snow he went up, through clouds and winds and ice until he punched through and the lazy-one-eye-sun melted the ice from his scales.

Howling, he fell again, folding his wings tightly against his spine.

The clouds-storms-snow-winds came screaming back, lashing out at his body. He let them, and fell and fell and fell until his instinct screamed and his wings snapped wide open. The muscles in his chest cried out under the strain, but he rose steadily, still aimed towards Murtagh-Belatona-home.

He could hear, fading fast into the snow, his roars, echoing across the land like rolling thunder.

_I have betrayed my pack-mate, _he thought quietly, steadying himself and rushing on. _But I have done it, and it is done. There is no going back. May the Mother forgive me. _

He was so lost in his thoughts and the swirling snow that he didn't hear the shriek until it was almost on him.

The Halfling burst from the snowstorm like a ghost-spirit-wraith, its yellow teeth bared in a triumphant snarl.

Thorn didn't even see it coming.

The half-dragon-monster slammed into his side, its fangs sinking sharp into his shoulder.

Bellowing in half-shock-half-rage, Thorn twisted, blasting fire at the beast as it savaged his shoulder. He could feel warm-life-blood rushing out of the wound, whetting the beast's appetite. The first gout of sullen red fire missed, and Thorn promised the second would not.

He rolled, kicking out, and shoved the Halfling off, blasting a second gout of fire that hit it square in the chest.

Yowling, it flared its too-narrow-wings and fell away, vanishing for a moment into the snow. It was a light gray beast, blending in with the swirling air, and Thorn howled his challenge.

_Come fight me, coward! _He bellowed, spinning wildly with the wind as he searched for the familiar shriek-roar or the iron-blood-scent that would give him his enemy.

There was another shriek very close to him; Thorn dropped and the Halfling shot overhead, growling in anger.

Roaring, the red dragon surged up on the current-from-the-ground, slamming into the creature from below. It howled and latched long-dirty-talon-claws into his back, scratching desperately as he sank his long-sharp-fangs into its softer scaled foreleg.

The bone snapped with a satisfying crunch and blood rushed into his mouth. The Halfling screamed.

_Abomination! _Thorn snarled, tightening his grip as he flared his wings, struggling to remain aloft. _Monster!_

The creature howled and tore at his back, rending scale-spine-flesh with its cruel claws, but Thorn didn't care. He barely felt it—the lines down his back were faint and fading like embers.

_I'll kill you, _he snarled, biting deeper into muscle-tendon-bone.

The thing's screams spiked higher and higher, making his ears ache and his body go rigid.

There was another voice—human, the rider—and suddenly Thorn let go, pressure wrapping around his throat like cold-black-chains.

_I forgot the rider, _he thought, struggling, and he saw the half-imitation-rider now, hunched on the wounded Halfling's back. He was a man and utterly unremarkable, like most two-legs, and Thorn didn't remember his face from his days in Uru'baen.

Thorn also didn't recognize the Halfling—it wasn't one that he had once been allied with, or one that he'd fought before. Its stolen-dragon-eyes were fierce blue, as was its Eldunarí, and Thorn's rage grew because those eyes reminded him of Saphira.

_Galbatorix is making new ones. _

The thought was horrifying but the crimson dragon had no time to think about it—the Halfling turned and charged, shrieking in agony-rage-bloodlust. What was left of its leg hung lose and wild, dropping blood into the swirling storm.

_It won't be using that again, _Thorn thought with a brief surge of vicious pleasure. He ducked, rolling to dart away.

The Halfling's claws missed his head by inches, slicing the air viciously.

With a flick of his wings, Thorn surged above the Halfling, his long-sharp-fangs bared, swinging his maimed-stump-tail like a mace.

His tail slammed into its jaw, snapping the bone—had Glaedr-of-the-gold-scales not bitten it off, it would have shredded it—and the Halfling-monster jerked to the side, keening brokenly through its jaw.

The rider screamed another world-magic-spell, one that made Thorn's scales itch-burn-rip-apart, and the pain made the red dragon even angrier.

Roaring he swiped at the rider, determined to knock him from his saddle, but the smaller-wirier-Halfling was faster, rolling out of the way, still keening through its shattered jaw, its wounded leg dangling and gushing.

Thorn was aware that he too was badly wounded, but he didn't _care_. He wanted to rip-tear-kill and nothing, not even his own blood falling with the swirling-white-snow, was going to stop him.

He swung around again, tracking the bleeding-wounded-Halfling by the scent of its blood alone.

_Going to kill you_, he thought at it, so angry he was almost beyond words. He shoved dark-violent-angry thoughts at it, thoughts of blood and torn limbs and blank glassy-not-Saphira-blue eyes.

The Halfling didn't flinch away—even bloody and horribly injured, it gathered itself and charged again, narrow wings beating the snow-strewn air.

Its mind was wild and stupid but boiling with pain-rage-fear-bloodlust and Thorn felt the ragged traces of the dragon.

He roared his own anger and rushed to meet the creature head on—they slammed into each other with the force of great-tall-ocean-waves, all claws-fangs-thrashing-tails, raking and ripping and biting at every piece they could reach.

Thorn felt fire explode down his chest, along one wing, and very close to his left eye. He scratched the half-dragon-half-Fanghur's face and broke a few ribs with his hind legs. The beast shrieked and tried to back away, but the crimson dragon, howling in rage-fury-victory, lunged and caught it where its neck met its chest, biting deep through scale-flesh-muscle.

It screamed, howling and clawing wildly.

Very faintly, Thorn could hear the false-half-rider screaming something frantically but he didn't care. All that mattered, in that moment, was killing the Halfling.

Fire erupted from his jaws, searing the open-bleeding-wound. The Halfling screamed again, a terrible, high, piercing sound.

The rider was chanting almost ritualistically, like a spell or a prayer.

The Halfilng kicked out desperately now, like a trapped-bleeding-deer facing teeth and death.

Thorn snarled in savage triumph, and then he got an idea. With his fangs still buried in the thing's body he angled them downwards, plummeting at a frightening speed.

The Halfling's anguished roars turned to ones of terror and it fought even harder, kicking and beating its narrow-bloody-torn-wings.

It was useless.

Thorn let go and _kicked, _forcibly shoving it down as hard as his tired, bleeding body would let him. With a mighty thump and the crack of bones, it slammed into the snow-covered-earth hard enough to shake it.

This time, it didn't scream. It made a weak-pitiful-pained noise and tried to get up, but its legs were horribly broken and its wings useless-mangled-shattered.

It was trapped.

Thorn landed in front of it, teeth stained crimson and bared.

The rider lolled in his saddle, bleeding from his head, unconscious or maybe dead.

_Going to kill you_, the red dragon snarled again, advancing on it. He was aware of dozens of wounds littering his body, dripping red-blood-life into the new-white-snow.

The Halfling flinched away, still making that awful low sound in its bleeding throat.

Snarling viciously, triumph-of-the-hunt singing in his hot, boiling blood, Thorn prowled through the snow.

Contemptuously, Thorn raised his right forepaw, claws extended, ready to rip the Eldunarí out of its chest. Fire-revenge-_justice _surged in his mind—by killing this creature, everything would get better, everything would hurt less, everything would be alright again.

He drew back, crimson eyes gleaming, and the Halfling pressed itself closer to the ground, its eyes searing and blue and _terrified_—

Thorn paused. _Terrified?_

He wasn't used to things being terrified of him. The two-leg-humans were often intimidated, but they were small-vulnerable-weak compared to him; it was natural. Besides, once they realized he wasn't going to eat them, they were fine with him. And none of the other dragons he'd met had ever been afraid of him. They were either pack-mates-friends or enemies. None of the abomination-Halflings had been fearful either. They'd all fought him with tooth and claw fearlessly, never backing down until he forced them to.

But this one, it was afraid. Its wide-blue-eyes were huge and it huddled against the ground, bleeding and shaking.

It reminded Thorn of a hatchling.

For several seconds he was frozen, paw raised to strike at the creature and rip its throat out. Almost irrationally he remembered finding Saphira in Morzan's old-abandoned-ruined-castle and watching her scales in the moonlight. He remembered how alone she looked, how vulnerable, lost inside nightmare-shadow-fear.

_I have to kill it, _he told himself. _Its an enemy. It will hurt my family if I let it go. It is my _duty _as leader-of-the-pack. _

The blue-eyed Halfling hunched and shivered, still making that pained, awful sound.

_Kill it! _Thorn ordered himself.

He was sure now that the rider was dead; he was limp and bleeding and it looked like both his arms were broken. When the Halfling had fallen, the rider must've died when it hit the ground.

_It's alone, _whispered a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind, crying out against the rage-anger-fire that burned hot in his blood. _It's just lost its rider. It's young and scared and it doesn't know what to do. _

_It's like you. _

The Halfling stared at Thorn with its wide, wide eyes, and he felt something broken and alien trail across his mind.

_Please… _

Thorn lowered his paw.

_I can't kill it, _he thought, and bitterness flooded his mind. _I've failed my pack again. _

The Halfling stared at him some more, its eyes wide-frightened-pain-glazed.

_I will not kill you, _Thorn told it wearily, feeling older and younger than he'd ever been. _I can't, _he added to himself.

The creature didn't respond, hunkering down closer to itself. It was bleeding everywhere, and Thorn realized that it would probably die soon anyway.

_Why_? Whispered the alien voice, and with a jolt Thorn realized the half-creature was talking to him. _I enemy. Enemies kill. _

Thorn glared at it, wishing he could kill it, could shove down that instinct, that feeling that he would be killing a newborn-hatchling.

_Not always, _he said tiredly.

_Always, _the Halfling assured him, and the dragon caught images of twisted-broken-Shruikan and the other Halflings, and of blue scales behind shimmering bars—

_Saphira! _He roared, and the Halfling flinched.

_You know where Saphira is! _He skittered forward, intending to catch the thing and shake it until it told him where Saphira was, how to get to her, everything.

It hissed, frightened, but Thorn didn't care. He spread his wings, feeling the wind-from-the-east fill them, threaten to lift him up.

_Kill die die die now, _the Halfling thought wildly, fear harsh-wild in Thorn's mind, but he ignored it.

_Where is she? _Thorn cried, face pressed up against the creature's. _Tell me!_

It cowered, clearly not understanding, whimpering as its many, many injuries were jarred as Thorn got closer and closer.

_Die now, _it thought, all memories fleeing as it trembled, blue eyes wide, expecting death.

Thorn stopped, growling in anticipation-frustration-need. _I need to find her, _he decided. _I have to find Saphira. _

The Halfling wasn't telling him anything now, but oh it would, once he dragged it back to Belatona and the rebels-heroes-Varden. It would tell him _everything, _and then he could save Saphira and fulfill his duty-to-the-pack.

_You are coming with me, _he said, and lifted himself above it, wrapping all four paws around its body, claws digging into already wounded flesh.

It wailed in obvious pain, but Thorn didn't care. He'd spared its life, and it knew where Saphira-of-the-blue-scales was—he'd done the _right thing. _

Triumph lifted his spirits, chased away the bitterness-regret-rage that had stalked his wingbeats since the Battle of the Falling.

Finally he'd done something right. The Halfling was bound to know many things, from the size of the host-of-the-King to the positions of other Halflings all over Alagaesia.

This thought gave him the strength to fly, bleeding and exhausted, burdened with a crippled Halfling (that, interestingly enough, weighed less than Thorn thought it would) towards Belatona through the swirling-white-snow.

_Murtagh, _he cried, as the storm slowed down and the sun began to punch its way through the clouds, lighting up his scales and the world below him. He saw the jagged peaks of Helgrind and the vast sheet-of-glittering-ice that was Leona Lake. He felt in the partner-soul-heart bond vibrate and grow hot, felt Murtagh touch his mind warily, almost as if he didn't dare believe it was really Thorn.

Thorn sang out to his heart-partner and barely felt his burden at all.

_Thorn? _He said softly.

_I'm coming, _Thorn called. _I'm coming. _

He reached for a connection-bond that was quiet and dead, felt it carefully, gently. _Saphira, _he called. _I'm coming. _

* * *

**On to part two of the two-for-one special!**

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	12. Chapter Eleven: The Red Guard

**Dedicated to my ever-tolerant roommate Molly, who patiently puts up with late-night tea binges, frantic writing, and incessant ideas that I bounce off of her like dodgeballs.**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Inheritance Cycle. It is CP's. **

* * *

"All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness." -Washington Irving, _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_

Chapter Eleven: The Red Guard

Roran was burning. He was fading and burning, all over, and he really, really wanted it to _stop. _He wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep. He wanted to go home and open his eyes and see his father there, making breakfast, and Eragon sprawled out on his bed, and the corn growing in.

Instead, he burned.

He was somewhere clean and white, he knew that much. There were voices that floated above him, whispered things, and there were hands that held him down.

Flashes of red swam in his vision against the white sky and he thought of blood in the snow, his home destroyed and the Hound snarling.

He wanted to escape, to sleep or die or go home, but he couldn't. He was stuck, tied down by hands and the fire.

Voices swam over Roran's head, sharp and insistent. Someone wanted something, but the battered man couldn't make out what it was, and he was too tired—to blurry—to do anything about it.

More fire.

He could smell burning and hear the roar of flames—was it his own skin, crackling merrily as fire licked it from the bone?

There was another Voice, louder, deeper, _angrier_, and it crawled over him and chewed on his skin.

_Let me in, _the Voice demanded. Somewhere against the white sky a pair of coal-bright eyes flashed. _Let me in, little human, let me in. _

_No, _thought Roran wildly, twisting. _No, stay away. _

The Voice snarled. _I need you_, it snapped. _Or they'll come again. _

Roran didn't know who "they" were, and he didn't want to know.

He just wanted to sleep.

_Let me in, _hissed the Voice.

_Go away, _Roran told it. _Go away. Find someone else. _

The Voice snarled and disappeared, and for a little while the burning, splitting agony cooled. He caught snatches of converstation;

"Lucky to be alive," one soldier muttered.

"He must be some fighter."

"Hell, he's gotta be to take down a Houn—"

"Shut up," hissed another. "D'you _want _the captain to hear you talking like that?"

There were murmurs of agreement, and then Roran slipped under again.

There was more fire and this time it was cold, prickling in thousands of tiny ice shards under the surface of his skin.

_My son, my son, _whispered Garrow, pressing a cold blue and ivory hand to Roran's forehead. _So foolish. Did you think you could fight a Hound and win?_

_I did win, _Roran hissed, desperate to get away from the shade and the ice-fire. He couldn't move—panic rose in his throat and he tried to thrash, but he was frozen, trapped—

"Easy," someone whispers, and another hand, warm and alive and real, knocks Garrow's cold dead one away. "Just take it easy, stranger. You're hurt, d'you understand? Badly, badly hurt."

_Let me go, _Roran wanted to beg. _I need to go, I have to go, _Katrina—

More hands shoved him down.

_Let me go, _he screamed. _Please, please, let me go—!_

And then there was nothing.

"_Roran," said Katrina, tracing her fingers down his face. "I didn't think you were going to come. If Father finds out..."_

_Roran laughed and pressed a kiss into her hair. "He won't find out," he promised. "We're in the Spine, Katrina. He's terrified of the Spine."_

"_You underestimate him." Her fingers are wandering through his own hair now, tangling in it almost effortlessly. _

"_Everyone knows he hasn't set foot here since…" _

"_My mother died?" There was a warning note in her voice. _

"_Yeah," said Roran sheepishly, cursing himself and his loose tongue. "I'm sorr—"_

"_Don't be." Katrina had a crooked little grin on her face. "I don't even remember her."_

_Roran was silent, enjoying the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair. "We can leave, if you want," he said. _

_She smiled, turning her face towards him, and the sunlight hit her and made her glow golden and warm. His breath caught in his throat because she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. _

"_No," she said, her voice dropping lower, pulling him close. "Let's stay. Father won't be looking for me anytime soon." _

_Laughing, Roran pressed a kiss to her face, enjoying the way she laughed and squirmed against him. _

"_Not here," Katrina laughed. "You moron, anyone could see." _

"_Let them," said Roran. "Katrina, I—"_

_She cut him off, kissing him like she'd never see him again. "I know," she said. "But let's not now, alright? There will be plenty of time to talk later."_

"_Fine." Roran relented, leaning back to peer down into her sun-golden face. "So what do you want to do?"_

_She smiled mischievously. "Run with me," she said, and turned into the Spine. _

"_Wait," Roran called after her, stretching out a hand. "Wait for me!"_

The dream shifted.

_Katrina in bed, bathed silver in moonlight, her hair ghostly and aflame. She was sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning. Outside Roran heard the grumble of the villagers, muttering to one another, lost in their fear and anger and desire to protect. _

_Even fainter he heard the Empire, the clink of armor and the soft whuff of the horses. He prayed the barricade would hold another night. _

_Katrina made a sound, twitching in her sleep, and Roran turned to her suddenly, an overwhelming fear swelling in his gut. _

_The Ra'zac burst through the window, shrieking and clicking. Glass exploded outwards, turned silver by the moon. Roran howled in rage, lunged forward, hammer drawn. He managed to strike the creature, his hammer squelching deep into whatever the Ra'zac was made of. The one he hit made a keening sound and _moved_, far too fast to be human, and threw back its cowl._

_Two beady awful eyes and a sharp beak stared Roran in the face, and then the beak plunged into his shoulder, ripping muscle and flesh and bone._

_He shouted and fell back, the wound red hot and throbbing. The second Ra'zac had Katrina thrown over its stooped shoulder and she fought it, kicking and clawing and screaming to raise the dead. _

_The Ra'zac hissed and clicked before fleeing out the window with a still-screaming, fighting Katrina. _

No, _Roran tried to howl, _wait for me, Katrina!

_But they were gone. _

The dream changed again.

_Katrina, bone thin with a cloth covering her eyes, huddled into Roran, her too-skinny body shaking and shuddering as Saphira carried them on her broad back._

_Roran was whispering something nonsensical into her ear, his heart hammering hard against his chest. "I've got you," he was saying, or maybe "you're safe now, the Ra'zac are dead."_

_And one of them was, at least. Roran had no doubt that Eragon would kill the other—his cousin was powerful now, strong in ways that normal men could never hope to be. _

_Saphira was silent beneath the two of them. Roran knew she was worried for Eragon, wanted to go to him, wrap him in her wings and never let him out of her sight again. He felt the same way about Katrina. _

_Katrina stayed that way all the way back to the Varden. She was too thin, he knew, and weakened terribly by her ordeal and the loss of her father. She was strong, though. All she needed was some time, some good food, and the warm embrace of his arms, and she'd be okay again. _They _would be okay again. _

_When they landed in Surda, Roran took her away before the Varden could come. The rest of the villagers would want to see her, but he wasn't ready. Katrina might be—she was stronger than him, this he didn't doubt—but he wasn't. He'd just gotten her back safely. He wasn't ready to share her just yet._

_He took her to the edge of camp and sat her down, fed her soup carefully and scrounged up some clean clothes. _

_Finally, with shaking, trembling fingers, she pulled the cloth off, blinking in the light that was harsh to her eyes. _

"_Roran," she breathed, and the sun hit her face just so and she looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. She trailed a hand down his face gently, feeling the beard that had grown there. "I love you," she said, very seriously, and then she kissed him hard and sharp. _

_And then she turned and walked away. _

"_Wait," Roran said, stretching out a hand. "Where are you going?"_

"_I need to be alone, I think." Her voice was gentle but firm, colored with a note of warning. "I'll be back."_

_Roran stayed, watching her walk away. _Don't leave me, _he wanted to say. _Please don't leave me.

The dream shifted once more.

_He was standing in a field, the grass turned old and gray beneath his feet. Katrina was standing in front of him and she was old. Her hair had gone white and wispy, blowing in a breeze he couldn't feel. There were heavy lines on her face and her hands were curled with age, her shoulders stooped and her limbs shaking, as old limbs often did. _

_She was dressed elegantly, though, wrapped in silk and velvet. She was dressed in a velvet travelling cloak, the edges lined with fur. A gold necklace winked at him and on one hand she wore their wedding ring and a ring with a sapphire that glittered faintly in sunlight that didn't warm his face. _

_She looked like a queen, and she was more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. _

_Roran was an old man too, he could feel it. His bones ached and his chest was tight, constricting. He saw strands of iron gray in his eyes and his hands were gnarled like an old farmer's. He felt the weight of his hammer against his hip and the weight of rings on his fingers, but he didn't look to see them. _

_He only saw Katrina, because she was beautiful and ancient and quite possibly ready to die. _

"_Katrina," he said, and she smiled. _

"_Don't worry, Roran." Her voice was old too, aged and cracked. "You mustn't be afraid. It's only for a little while."_

"_I don't want you to go," Roran pleaded. "Please don't leave me."_

_She stepped close and cupped his old face with her withered hand. "Be strong," she said, and then she kissed him like she was never going to see him again, hard and sharp and sweet. _

_And then she turned and walked away, her cloak billowing in the wind._

"_Wait!" Roran shouted after her, stretching out an old hand uselessly at her back. "Wait for me!"_

_And then she was gone, and he was left standing alone in the fields, tears streaming down his cheeks and wind blowing in his face. _

Roran woke and he was crying.

The tears were hot and salty, streaking down his ice-cold skin and smearing dirt and blood, and he couldn't stop. He cried silently, making no sound as the tears rolled down his face and dripped onto the bed, rapidly fading and drying up like the dream. He felt the dream in his chest like a wound, aching and aching like the bite to his shoulder, and for a moment he thought the Hound must have bitten him there as well.

_Katrina, Katrina, _he thought, reaching for the link to her that had burned so hot only hours—or days? Weeks?—ago. It was cold. The danger was over, he wasn't going to die any more, so Eragon's spell had gone back to sleep.

For a second he wished he was a magician so he could call out to her across the whole world, could close his eyes or stare into a pool of water and see her face or hear her voice.

Roran missed her so much that his heart hurt more than his shoulder, and he couldn't stop the tears that rolled down his face any more than he could stop the snow from falling.

"Well look who's awake." From somewhere over Roran's head and hand came down and patted the bearded man gently. "You've been sleeping for quite some time, stranger. I had to knock you out."

Roran wanted to answer the stranger, but he found that he couldn't.

"The worst of it's over, I think," the stranger continued. "You were very, very ill."

Roran blinked, trying furiously to clear away the tears.

"Are you in pain? Blink once for yes, twice for no—I don't imagine that you'll be able to talk yet."

Roran blinked once. His eyes itched and burned and his throat was tight, but the tears were gone, leaving only sticky tracks down his face. Hopefully, this man would think it was the pain.

"I thought so," said the man. "You've been through quite an ordeal, my friend. When you were brought to me, I was convinced that you would die. As it were I pulled enough poison out of you to paralyze a dragon. I'm surprised your heart didn't stop. Not many men can face a Hound and live."

"Who…" Roran rasped, before his throat closed and he hacked violently. _Who are you? _He wanted to ask. _Where am I? How did I get here? _The last thing he remembered was Katrina's voice calling to him as he bled to death in the snow, shouting his name.

_There's more to it, _he thought, hurt and frustrated. _What am I missing? _

He kept coughing and something warm hit the back of his mouth—blood, he thought—and the stranger forced him down, pressing a cup to his lips.

"Drink," he ordered. "Before I knock you out again."

Roran weakly did as he was told. As he came more and more awake pain threaded its way into his mind—his shoulder was on _fire_, burning like it had after the Ra'zac had wounded him.

"I'm Jensen," the man continued. "I am a healer for the Red Guard."

Roran stiffed. _The Empire, _he thought. _I'm with the Empire. _

He wracked his mind for details but it was useless; he didn't remember much of anything after his battle with the Hound. The awful red-eyed beast had bitten him deeply, so deeply he'd felt bone crunch under the weight of those silver finds. He remembered the ice that had swarmed his blood then, the awful, inescapable pain, and the darkness as it roared and swallowed him whole.

_I should have died_, he thought, confused. _Why…? _He tried to remember, digging ruthlessly through his mind as the ache in his shoulder got stronger.

Flashes of something—golden light, a peaceful river, his father's face—flitted like butterflies through his thoughts, but when he tried to grab at them they slid away.

_Katrina…_ He'd heard her voice. She'd screamed at him, demanded that he come back, that he wake up. _Did she save me? _

"Drink this," the man called Jensen ordered, pressing another cup to Roran's lip. Immediately the wounded general froze.

_It could be poison! _He thought wildly. _They're the Empire, they're trying to kill me. _

"Now, please. It's not poison, young man, it's medicine."

Reluctantly, Roran swallowed the drink. It was hot and mostly tasteless, slipping down his throat easily.

"Very good," said Jensen. "Your shoulder should feel better soon. The Hound did some damage. It bit through to the bone and caused quite a bit of bleeding. Not to mention the _poison…_" He walked away, muttering to himself.

"Hound?" Roran rasped, struggling to get find his voice again. He'd meant to ask "what happened to the Hound," but he figured Jensen would understand.

"The creature you fought? Surely you recognized it from the stories?"

"Wha' happn'd," he said, a little bit clearer.

"Oh. You certainly gave it as good as you got, young man. It was dead when we found you. You bashed it to pieces—there wasn't enough left unharmed for it to come back."

Roran shuddered, remembering the way he'd pounded and pounded at the monster and how it had healed itself again and again, snarling with the voice of ice and storms.

"Where's 't?"

Jensen made a sound that was probably accompanied by a shrug. "The captain had its body burned," he said. "He didn't want the men to see."

Roran shuddered again, this time for a different reason. _I'm alone and injured, in the hands of the Empire. If they find out who I am, they'll kill me. _

"This is all that's left." Something ice cold and narrow was pressed into Roran's hand. It was about as long as one of his fingers and felt like steel, curved and sharp at one end. It was hollow and the tip was jagged, like it had been broken off.

Roran froze.

He was holding the Hound's fang.

"Hide that," Jensen suggested. "All talk of the Hound has been banned."

"Why?"

"Because the captain doesn't think it was a Hound."

"It was _not_ a Hound." Another voice, this one rougher than Jensen's, cut it sharply.

Jensen made an annoyed sound. "Of _course _not, Captain. Because that could never be true, could it?"

"No," said the man, the captain. "It couldn't. Stop filling the boy's head with crazy stories. I'm sure he's addled enough as it is."

A face suddenly appeared over the wounded man's head. An older man, wild-haired and sharp-eyed, stared down at Roran. He was maybe thirty or forty with a thick, curly beard and a mouth set into a frown. Almost instantly Roran felt uncomfortable with him—he was too severe, too harsh-looking.

He reminded Roran of Sloan, Katrina's father.

"Boy," said the captain roughly.

_He recognizes me, _Roran thought wildly, instinctively curling the fang tight in his hand, ready to lunge and stab the captain if he needed to.

"He can't speak well yet," Jensen said sharply. "And he's in considerable pain."

"Unfortunately, I don't care." The captain grabbed Roran's uninjured shoulder and hauled him upright into a sitting position. Roran winced and made a sound of protest at the sudden rush of pain that came with the motion, but the captain ignored him.

He growled, trying to twist away, but the captain held him firm and, with the familiar sound of scraping metal, drew his sword and pressed it lightly against the Varden general's neck.

Roran froze.

"Derek!" Jensen snapped. He was a surprisingly young man, not too much older than Roran himself. His eyes were hazel and pleasant and his hair was dark. His face had the look of innocence on it, the look of a child before things like war and death turned it into a hard, hating man.

"As long as he remains unquestioned, he is a threat to this outpost," the captain said coldly. "So I'm going to question him. If he's not a threat, then he can stay. But if he is…" He fixed Roran with his sharp eyes and smiled a smile that was too similar to the Hound's bared teeth for Roran's comfort.

"Can you speak, boy?"

Roran licked his lips. His mouth felt like a desert and his face was still sticky with his own tears. His shoulder burned and the edges of his vision were going gray and black, filling with blue-ivory hands and flashing red eyes, but the wounded general met the Imperial captain's eyes unflinchingly.

"Yes," he said painfully, hating the gravelly, broken sound of his voice.

"Good," said Derek the captain. "See, Jensen? He's stronger than you think."

The healer muttered something under his breath that Roran didn't catch—his ears were full of the sound of the wind.

"So," the captain turned his attention back to the injured man. "What's yer name, boy?"

"Um," said Roran, scrambling in his tired mind, keenly aware of the sharp point of the blade against his throat. "Cad'c." He quickly settled on his grandfather's name. "Cad'c Sloanss'n."

"Where ye from, Cadoc, son of Sloan?" The captain's eyes glittered dangerously.

"North."

"How far north? I'm from Therinsford meself."

_Damn! I can't say I'm from Carvahall or Therinsford—he'll be too suspicious. Think, you bloody idiot. _"Y'zuac," he blurted out. He remembered the gossip that had swept Carvahall shortly after Garrow's death; the entire village of Yazuac had been slaughtered by a huge horde of Urgals. It had horrified and frightened many, but Roran had known almost instinctively that the Urgals had gone south for good.

Jensen hissed in a sharp breath and the captain blinked a little, apparently surprised.

"_The _Yazuac?"

"Yeah," said Roran, rapidly creating a fake life in his head. _I need this to work… They can't find out who I am… I can't die yet. I have to get to Katrina. I have to get her to the Varden safely. _

He focused on Derek's face, ignoring the black edges around his vision and the nightmares that swam there.

"All of Yazuac was slaughtered," the captain growled. "There were no survivors; the Urgals killed them all."

_Don't you mean the Empire? _Roran thought bitterly, because it had been under Galbatorix's command that the Urgals destroyed the town and wiped out even the babies and old women.

"Wasn' in th' town wh'n th' Urg'ls came," Roran managed painfully. The sword against his throat was almost as cold as the fang clenched tight in his fist. His shoulder ached fiercely and his mind swam—what the hell did Jensen give him? "Was out."

"Doing what?" Derek's eyes were hard and ruthless. This was a man who could order the slaughter of an entire village, Roran thought. He could do it easily.

"Hun'in'," the wounded man managed. He coughed heavily, wincing at the taste of blood in the back of his mouth.

Jensen made a frustrated sound—the captain ignored both the healer and the cough.

"Hunting?"

Roran nodded gingerly. "F'r m' wife's f'ther. I was gone m'ybe ten days, 'nd when I come back, they're all dead—m' wife, 'er f'ther,m' little boy, m' ma 'nd pa, m' friends. Everyone."

He looked away deliberately then, focusing on the fluttering white of the tent. He could hear the wind howl outside and it reminded him of the Hound—he imagined the great wolf prowling at the entrance of the tent, licking its long, dripping fangs and snarling to itself, seeking the fire that had burned so very brightly in Eragon.

Derek's eyes seemed to soften, just a little. "How old where ye?"

"Eigh'teen."

The man nodded. "So yer 'bout twenty-one now, eh?"

"Yessir."

"How come you didn't stay north, then? Why come all the way down past Dras Leona?"

"Hun'in' Urgals. I wanna kill 'em." Roran found that he could speak easier, but he chose to talk like he was still hurting. If the Empire thought he was a simple revenge-crazed country bumpkin, they'd never guess he was Roran Stronghammer, right hand to Nasuada of the Varden and Killer of Ra'zac. "I wanna kill all of 'em f'r killin' m' family."

"I respect that," Derek said. "My healer Jensen says ye must be some mighty warrior. Ye took down that huge wolf all by yerself, with just a hammer. Ye know who else fights with a hammer, Cadoc Sloansson?"

Roran was still, tense. _Is he on to me? Does he know?_

"Roran Stronghammer, the warrior of the Varden," the captain continued. "He grew up not too far from me, ye know? Right across the river in Carvahall. He uses a hammer too, just like ye do."

The bearded general knew how to respond; he turned his head to the side and spat. "You think Strongh'mmer's th' only one who heard th' old tales of Ger'nd? I was raised on those tales, c'ptain. You heard 'em?"

Derek shook his head. If he really was from Therinsford, then he was lying—everyone in the north knew the Song of Gerand. He was testing Roran.

"See, this ol' warrior, Ger'nd, was livin' peacefully with his wife 'nd family, farmin' the land and payin' his taxes like a good man. But this ol' lord didn' like Ger'nd's peace, so he declared blood-feud. Ger'nd was forced t' fight again, 'cept this time he didn' pick up a sword; he picked up a h'mmer 'nd defeated his enemies. When he was done, he hung up that ol' h'mmer 'nd went back to farmin'."

Derek nodded and Roran noticed that the pressure of the sword against his neck was lessening, little by little.

"Ye admire this man Gerand then? And Roran Stronghammer?"

"Ger'nd, yes. Strongh'mmer, no."

"Why not? He was a farmer, like yer hero, and he too chose the hammer to defend his village." Derek's eyes were glittering and sharp.

_I can't make a mistake now. _

The answer was already in the general's mind, and he was faintly surprised at how easy it was to lie. "He fights with Urgals," he spat. "He leads 'em, eats with 'em, calls 'em allies. I love no man who loves the monsters that killed m' family."

Derek the captain tilted his head, considering. "So ye just stumbled across the wolf, then? It was an accident?"

Roran tried to shrug and managed it with one shoulder. "I was tryin' to find a place to stay out th' storm. I heard a man screamin' and somethin' awful growlin', so I went 'nd checked it out. I saw it and it saw me—it spooked m' horse 'nd I was stuck, so I fought it. Thought I was gonna die, actually. It got me good, didn' it?"

"Yes," the captain said, apparently satisfied. "Unfortunately his Majesty's creations aren't the easiest being to control."

"Th' King made that thing?" Roran's eyebrows went up and he thought about it. Was it possible? Was the Hound not really a Hound but another one of Galbatorix's experiments, like the painless soldiers or the Halflings?

_No, _thought Roran. _I fought with it. It wasn't like anything that's ever existed before. It was _cold, _and it could speak. It knew me. _

"Yes," said Derek calmly, lying as easily as Roran had lied. "I received the official notice this morning. There are a few more loose—we are warned to be watchful."

Roran blinked and rubbed his throat with his good arm. The bite in his shoulder seemed to prickle and swell, hot and pulsing with every beat of his heart.

"It's a good thing we have you now," Derek continued. "You're the only one who's faced these creatures and lived." He slapped Roran's shoulder in a friendly way that also managed to seem rather threatening.

Jensen made an annoyed sound, and Roran saw that his young, innocent face was shadowed and darkened.

"'scuse me?" Roran said slowly, trying to play stupid. There was an awful sinking feeling in his gut.

Captain Derek smiled. "Well now, Cadoc son of Sloan, once yer healed up, we'd be honored to accept you into our ranks. Yer quite a fighter, and what better chance are ye gonna have to kill the Urgals?"

Roran stared.

"Surprised?" The captain laughed. "We need men like ye, Cadoc. Jensen here will take care of ye, fix ye up as good as new. And then we've got a place for ye here, in the Red Guard. I bet yer wife never thought ye'd be a soldier, eh?"

Laughing, he turned sharp on his heel, waved to Jensen, and disappeared out the tent flap into the howling wind.

Roran watched him go, blinking.

Jensen returned to his work, clattering and muttering to himself.

The medicine was finally kicking in; Roran felt lightheaded and dazed, like he was floating along in a river. He was warm all over now, in a good way, and the sharp throb of his wound had dulled considerably.

He was struck with the urge to laugh hysterically.

_I've just joined the Empire! _

* * *

**So, as you can see, each major character now has his or her own conflict going on. With any luck, I'll be able to take these through Chapter 30 or so, where _everything _changes. Mmm, also, there is lots and lots of foreshadowing in these two most recent chapters. Just sayin'. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	13. Chapter Twelve: Courage

**Hey everyone. It's been a long, long time, I know, I know. I just... lost touch with this story. I'm trying to get back into it, but I don't know... these two chapters will be a trial of sorts, I think. Tell me what you think, what I should change, and I'll try my hardest. I really want to get this done, you don't even know. **

**I'm so, so sorry for the wait. D:**

**These two chapters have not yet been beta'd: they're on their way to Arya Shadeslayer now. I'll update the edited versions when they return. **

**Thank you all so much for the reviews and PMs; I disabled my email for a bit, to take a break, step back, and relax, and I'm going through them all now; it's so touching to see all the support, love, and concern. THANK YOU. YOU'RE AMAZING. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle, its characters, or its events. **

* * *

"The key to change... is to let go of fear." -Rosanne Cash

Chapter Twelve: Courage

_The lake was cold and crystal and he saw his face reflected in it, a blur of green-scales-greener-eyes-white-teeth. The water pooled around his talons, shimmering, and he tasted world-will-magic on his tongue. _

_Faolin stood in the Lake of Mirrors and looked desperately for the partner-of-his-heart, but she was nowhere to be seen. _

Arya! _He shouted, tasting the air. It was heavy with water-magic-blood and the faintest trace of Arya—she'd been here, but where was she?_

_The lake shimmered, reflecting scale-tooth-eyes-sky flawlessly. The water stretched in every direction, perfectly flat and still. He smelled nothing; no fish, no animals drinking, no plants growing along the shore. _

_The Lake of Mirrors was a dead lake, and it was scaring Faolin. _

Arya! _He cried again, and he spread his wings, shoving out of the unnaturally still-dead-haunted lake with all the force in his young body. _

_He soared easily up over the water but it sprawled below him, great-large-unconquerable, and fear crawled into his belly and became ice. _

Arya!

_He couldn't find her—where was she? Left, right, forward, back, the lake stretched in all directions wide-as-the-sky and Arya could be anywhere and she wasn't answering him. He couldn't hear her. Where was she?_

_He flew harder than he had ever flown, his whole body straining, his mind reaching out desperately for Arya, his Arya, the partner-of-his-mind-and-soul. He saw the lands beyond the Lake of Mirrors for a brief moment, sprawled out into the Forest-of-the-Golden-Light, across the dry-yellow-plains and the rolling-green hills. It was a huge land easily the size of Alagaesia, an entire world untouched-undiscovered-unconquered. He didn't know this world at all—the memories-sights-sounds-history of the dragons knew nothing here, couldn't help him here. Back home he had the memories-instincts of his race to guide him, to tell him where to go, but here he did not._

_He knew nothing of this world except that the mirror-glass-ice-lake was vast and frightening and a forest of golden light lay in the distance, singing Arya's name and pulling her away from him. _

_Arya was lost in this world, and he didn't know how to find her. _

_Faolin concentrated, throwing all of himself, his soul-heart-mind, into the bond he shared with Arya, screaming her name with his very being. _

Arya!

_He felt her. She was shadowy, distant, at the very edges of his mind, but she was _there _and he needed her to hear him—_

Arya!

_He flew with all his might, with the strength-determination-rage of his ancestors, over the endless Lake of Mirrors towards the dry-land and the hills and the Forest-of-Golden-Light, towards Arya, bellowing her name. _

_She, on that lost and distant shore, her hair wreathed by the gentle golden light, turned towards Faolin and smiled at him. She raised her arms and opened her mind, warm-familiar-_there_, and the young dragon roared in joy, in relief, calling out to her happily. _

_His wings hurt and his mind ached, but she was _there_, she was so close he could feel-smell-see her, and she was getting closer by the minute._

Just a little farther, _she told him. _Come on, Faolin, just a little farther in. _She turned away from him, back towards the golden-soft-trees, and began to walk away, laughing gently. _

No, _Faolin cried. _Wait, please. I'm so tired, Arya, wait for me.

I can't, _she said like a mother talking to her just-born-hatchlings. _Someone more important is waiting for me, Faolin. I can't wait for you.

Please! _Faolin begged. _Just for a moment. I'm coming, I promise, please don't leave me. _He flew even harder, his emerald-green-as-grass wings straining. He was sinking in the air, dropping in height as his young body tired and burnt out. The Lake of Mirrors yawned below him, the shore getting farther and farther away. _

Please!

_Arya laughed coldly, gently. _I have no time for you, foolish little dragon_, she said. She smiled at him and even though she was far away he saw her teeth gleam and sharpen. _You're never going to catch me. Why don't you just stop trying?

No, _Faolin cried. _No, I need you. Please wait, please.

_Arya shook her head and her hands became long-cruel-claws to match the gleaming fangs in her mouth. _Pitiful, _a voice that was Arya's and not Arya's whispered, echoing in Faolin's skull. _So weak. She'll never love you enough, you know. You'll never catch her.

No! _Faolin screamed, throwing all his strength into his wings, struggling to fly, to stay in the air, to catch Arya. _

_The partner-of-his-heart's eyes turned black and cold and cruel and she grinned at him with her fanged mouth and waved a taloned hand. _

_Pressure exploded down his back, on his wings, so heavy he thought it would break his bones and tear the green-diamond-scales from his back. He struggled once, desperately, like dying animal jerking one last time, and then he fell, dropping out of the sky and into the Lake of Mirrors. _

_The water was so cold it burned him, crawled into his hot-fire-blood and froze it solid. He couldn't move and water poured down his open throat, flooding his lungs. He tried to fight, screaming for her, for anyone, terror-love-pain exploding in his chest and mind. _

_The water above remained still and perfect, letting him see all the way to the sky, to Arya in the forest-of-the-light, and she turned away as he drowned, choosing instead to chase after ghosts and a river with faces reflecting in its sparkling waters. _

_Faolin drowned and the partner-of-his-heart turned away, and the love in his chest ached so fiercely he thought it would kill him before the water did. _

Please… _He thought, one last time. _Please, Arya…

_She didn't turn and he closed his eyes, letting the Lake of Mirrors swallow him whole. _

Please don't leave me…

Faolin woke with a startled roar and toppled off his perch, landing in a tangle of long-green-legs and tail. Terror and despair thudded in his heart, making him shake helplessly like a just-born-hatchling, and he hunkered down in the cold-icy-snow miserably, curling up.

_It was just a dream, _he said to himself, trying to squash the fear and the feeling of the water in his throat. _It wasn't real. _

He curled around himself tighter, letting the sharp realness of the snow against his scales and the wind blowing men-animal-city scents into his mouth bring him back out of the dream.

_You're pathetic, _the dream-voice whispered in his ear, and he whined in misery.

The moon was sharp-bright-clear above him and the wind howled like a monster. He was afraid, and cold, and very much alone. It was moonhigh and Arya wasn't back yet. She wasn't hurt—he could feel her vaguely through the link, steady familiar pulses of pain-determination-old-anger, but she wasn't open to him. He could make her speak with him, of course, but doing so would be childish and weak, would be admitting that he was afraid of the night and bad dreams.

And that was unacceptable.

He had to be strong; Arya was in pain. She mourned the loss of Rider-hero-soul-bond-Eragon, tortured herself with dreams and searching and long nights alone and awake. She was weakened-hurt-vulnerable, and she needed a dragon who was fearless and strong, a dragon like Thorn-of-the-red-scales who could protect her from the world. She didn't need a dragon who was afraid of nightmares and things that would never happen.

_Arya would never leave me, _Faolin assured himself. _She can't. She needs me too, just as much as I need her. _

The soul-deep-bond between a dragon and a Rider went both ways—Faolin needed Arya and Arya needed Faolin. She could physically leave him, travel so far away across lake-plain-hills-forests that he couldn't hear her or talk to her, but she could never, ever cut him off completely. He'd always feel her, no matter how far away she was.

The thought didn't do much to kill the lingering fear in his belly.

_What if she wants to leave me? _He thought. _What if I'm holding her back? I don't want to do that… I want her to be happy. _

Frustrated and afraid, he threw back his head and roared at the dark-cold-sky, listening to it echo and fade away. The moon seemed to shiver, sending rippling-silver-light across the snow, and Faolin looked out into the dark, icy world beyond Belatona and shuddered.

The world past the anthill-Varden-city scared him. Out _there_, somewhere in the darkness, something called to his Rider. It sang her name on the cold-winter-wind, whispered in the night, and she _listened _to it.

She would stare out the window of the ash-burnt-hut they'd been calling home for two months and sigh, playing with the red-gold-gray phoenix feather or stroking the worn-cracked-old-map. She looked towards the horizon, the golden forest she couldn't touch in her wandering-hunting-searching-dreams, and everything else in the city—Faolin, the other Riders, the Varden—didn't seem to matter much at all.

Faolin cut into the snow with his claws, his sharp-tipped-tail lashing against the trees.

He hated this. Arya was _his _Rider-partner-soul-mind-bond. He was alive, was _there _for her. Eragon wasn't. He was sad for her, of course, because he loved her and from what he'd seen in memories Eragon had loved her too, but Eragon was _dead_—

With an anguished, furious roar, Faolin lashed his tail and leaped into the cold-moonlit-sky, his wings churning frantically as he sailed up and up and _away_. The city and the snow-covered ground dropped rapidly and he felt a twinge—just the barest, slightest little jerk—from Arya, but when she tried to touch his mind he shoved her out ruthlessly.

He felt a sting of hurt-rejection-pain but he didn't _care_. He couldn't talk to her right now, when he was burning with sorrow-fear-anger. He needed to get away, just for a little while, to calm down and bring himself back.

_It's just for a while, _he told himself. Already his thoughts were turning back towards Arya and instinct-memory told him to stay with her, to never leave her side, but right now, he just _needed_ to be away from her.

The wind howled around him, lashing at scales. Another storm was blowing in, bringing snow-cold-ice, and Faolin knew he had to turn around and go back to the city-protection-pack that the Varden and its allies gave him. He was too young to be out in a snowstorm alone, and if anything happened to him, Arya—

_Arya might not make it, _he worried. She was strong-as-a-mother-dragon, but wounded, hurt. He wasn't sure if she could handle the loss of the partner-of-her-heart.

Faolin turned, intending to ride the cold-solid-wind back into the city, when the faintest of howls, more only slightly louder than the water-crashing-rush of the wind, shivered past his ears and he froze in mid-flight, hovering.

_Halfling? _He thought, straining to hear more, trying to catch a scent or a sound on the wind. It was pitch-dark and snow was beginning to fall, but Faolin could still make out field-tree-lakeshore below him.

The sound had come from the northeast, and Faolin swung around, gliding on stiff wings cautiously, waiting for a Halfling to spring from the shadows.

He scented the air again but it was clear; he only smelled humans-animals-other-dragons, not Halflings, and he waited for another few moments, straining to hear the sound again.

_Did I imagine it? _He wondered. He might have—he was still tense and frightened from the dream, and the sound had been very, very faint.

Faolin opened his maw and roared, letting it build and echo in the night, and he waiting, listening intently for any sound in response.

_I should go back, _he thought, wheeling above the frozen-snowy-ground. _What if it _is _a Halfling? I can't fight one on my own, can I? _

He roared again, one last call to whatever—if there was anything at all—he had heard.

There was no response, and the ice-cold-wind blasted against his scales, chilling him to the bone. He felt tired, sluggish, and he swung back towards the anthill-warm-city and the partner-of-his-heart.

_Help!_

The sudden mental roar startled Faolin so badly that he nearly dropped out of the sky and he struggled to right himself, wings beating furiously.

_Help!_

Faolin turned back around, facing the northeast, feeling the roar echo in his mind. _Hello? _He called, before common sense and fear for Arya stopped him. _Who's there?_

_Help! _

_Thorn! _Faolin recognized the voice now; Thorn-of-the-red-scales, Murtagh's dragon. He'd been missing for several days now, on a journey no one knew anything about. Arya thought that he had betrayed them once more, returned to nest-breaker-traitor-Galbatorix.

_Help me! _

The swirl of Thorn's thoughts was wild-injured-ragged, and without really stopping to think it through Faolin dove towards the pulse of his thoughts.

_Are you alright? _He called. _What happened?_

_Help! _Thorn said again. _I can't carry it any farther. _

_Carry what? _Faolin wondered, flying as fast as he could, though the storm-cold-wind was against him, tearing at his face and frosting the tips of his wings. _Where are you?_

A blast of sullen-deep-red-fire flared suddenly, bright against the black of the night, maybe two miles away in the darkness.

Faolin flew against the wind, reaching out to the older dragon determinedly.

_Come, _Thorn said, and Faolin felt his exhaustion, felt like he had flown leagues-miles-days without stopping, hurting and tired and carrying a heavy, heavy burden. _Quickly, please. _

Faolin surged, pushing against the wind, and finally he saw shapes on the ground below him, the massive, dull, almost-invisible glitter of Thorn's deep crimson scales, and another, smaller, dragon-shaped body half-pinned beneath his.

The sharp-acrid-Halfling-scent hit his nose, and he suddenly knew what red-scales-shrike-dragon-Thorn had brought to the Varden.

_That's a Halfling, _he whispered, landing warily several feet away, scattering snow. The smell of blood, Halfling-human-dragon, was strong, almost overpowering.

_Yes, _Thorn said, and there was hunter-pride mixed with the pain in his mind. _It is. _

The red dragon coughed suddenly, violently, and the smell of more blood hit the air.

_You're hurt, _Faolin said softly. His initial wariness faded a little. Thorn was clearly not working for Galbatorix—he was wounded, bleeding, and clearly tired—and the Halfling wasn't moving. Judging from the overpowering stench, it was more hurt than Thorn.

_Yes, _the older dragon said. _Listen, I need you to go get Murtagh. _

_Murtagh?_

Thorn coughed again and it was a chest-deep-painful sound. Faolin winced.

_Please, _said Thorn. _He can't get here fast enough, the Halfling will die. _

_What about you?_

_I'm okay, _Thorn said loudly, trying to sound cheerful, like he had been the time Faolin first spoke to him, in the icy forests on the outskirts of the city. _But I need you to get Murtagh. Can you do that? Can you carry him? You don't even have to let him ride you—just carry him. _

_I—_ Faolin hesitated, torn. Arya didn't like Murtagh. Arya _hated _Murtagh. She wouldn't approve, she would be angry, and Faolin didn't want that, he really didn't. He loved her, he wanted her to stay with him. What if carrying Murtagh to Thorn and the dying Halfling was the final blow that drove her to the east-forest-journey away from him?

_Please, _Thorn whispered. _It's important. He can heal the Halfling—we _need _it. _

_Arya might leave me, _Faolin thought to himself. _The partner-of-my-heart might _leave _me. _

The dream of the lake rose to the surface of his mind and cold flooded his veins. He remembered drowning-falling-screaming and for a moment the_ fear_ was overwhelming.

_Please. _

Faolin made his choice. _Okay, _he said. _Where's Murtagh?_

_By the gate, _Thorn said, and his happiness-tiredness-relief was strong enough that Faolin felt it. _Hurry. _

Faolin shoved off the frozen-hard-ground, his wings churning, and guilt and fear burned in his belly. _I have to do this, _he thought wildly. _It's for the greater good. It's bigger than me, than Arya. _

Thorn was right. The Varden _did _need the Halfling. Faolin may have been young-just-barely-hatched, but even he knew that the war was still raging and that the half-dragon-monster, with its knowledge, could help them.

And Faolin and the partner-of-his-heart were members of the Varden. Arya said so herself—they owed no loyalty to the elves, or the humans, or the dwarves, or even Murtagh's Dragon Riders. They owed their loyalty to the Varden.

_Arya, _Faolin said to himself, because Arya was still closed off from him and he didn't want to talk to her, not right now. He had this task before him first, and then he and his heart-bond-Rider had to speak. _Arya, please don't be too angry with me. _

The cold-storm-wind was with him now, driving his wingbeats, and soon he was near the city again, and he reached out for the mind of limping-blue-eyed-Murtagh.

_Murtagh, _he called nervously, fear and anxiety still pulsing in his belly. _Murtagh Stormbreaker!_

_I am here. _The human Rider's mind was suddenly there-hot-present in Faolin's. _Thorn told me what you are doing. We are grateful. _

Faolin dropped lower, searching the darkness. He could smell Murtagh, human-scent-dragon-scent-lightning, but he couldn't see him against the darkness. _Where are you? _

_Here. _Red fire, much like Thorn's flared suddenly and the young green dragon saw the human Rider, standing just outside the gates and leaning on his sword. _Just carry me in your talons. You don't have to carry me on your back. _

_Thanks, _Faolin said, relieved. _Arya wouldn't like that. _

Murtagh's mind was alive with anxiety-fear-relief, a hundred myriad emotions that Faolin couldn't identify without digging deeper—and something told him that would be a bad idea—but he felt a note-stab-jolt of bitterness there. _No, _the red Rider said. _I don't think she would. _

Faolin didn't even pause to land. He seized the Rider with both forepaws, like he would pick up a deer-fresh-kill-prey, and they were off again, against the wind.

The dragon screwed his eyes against it, trying to see in the darkness.

Murtagh hung from his paws, not making a sound of discomfort, though he was muttering under his breath in the ancient language. Faolin felt world-will-energy bend the air around them, and then the wind was gone.

_What did you do?_

_Shielded us from the wind, _Murtagh said grimly. _We don't have much time. The Halfling is dying. _

_What about Thorn? _Faolin asked timidly. He couldn't see the Rider's face, but he felt several emotions run through his mind, though Murtagh tried to shield himself.

Murtagh didn't answer, and Faolin flew as fast as he could.

_Thorn, _he called to the red-scaled-fierce-dragon.

_Faolin, _Thorn called back, and his voice was as tired as before. _You're coming?_

_Yes. _

_Good. _

Another jet of sullen-crimson-fire lit the way.

_Almost there, _Faolin said, his wings straining. Murtagh was heavy, and it wasn't getting any easier to lift him. He started to glide lower and lower, until they were only a few feet above the snowy ground and the giant shapes of red-scale-Thorn and the wounded-dying-Halfling.

_Drop me, _Murtagh said.

_But your leg. _

_Drop me, little one, _the Rider said kindly. _I'll be fine, I promise. _

Faolin reluctantly let go, feeling Murtagh drop away. Again magic-will-energy rippled through the air, and Murtagh floated the last several feet before landing lightly in the snow.

Faolin soared over the three and landed, turning to bound back to them. In his mind he felt Arya stir, coming out of wherever she had been, and she was a swirl of feelings, reaching out for him.

Murtagh lit a fire that floated above him, bathing the snow blood-red, and Faolin's stomach heaved. The Halfling and Thorn were suddenly illuminated, and they were _ruined. _The Halfling was a mess of bloody scales, scabbed-over injuries, and shattered bones. On its back was its Rider, and from the way it lay still like a slaughetered-half-eaten-deer, Faolin knew it was dead.

Thorn himself was wounded too, the snow around him turned to red-sticky-slush.

It was horrible. Faolin hadn't actually seen a battle before, one that he could remember clearly, anyway. He didn't know too much about death and war wounds, and this was _horrible. _

He made a sound in his throat, soft and sad, and Thorn looked at him with a great-crimson-eye.

_Looks bad, doesn't it?_ He said softly. Murtagh was bent over the Halfling, magic rippling around his fingertips, closing wounds as fast as he was able.

_How are you—What happened? _

_I went to Uru'baen, _Thorn said. _Looking for Saphira. _

_Is she alive?_

_Yes. _Thorn looked at the Halfling like a starving dog looked at fresh-killed-meat. _I saw her in the Halfling's mind. _

_Is—is that why you brought it back? To save Saphira?_

Thorn studied the younger dragon again, his eyes wide-vast-sad. _Yes, _he finally said, and rested his head in the snow.

Murtagh muttered faster, magic sparking at his fingertips, and the Halfling stirred in the snow, gaining life again.

Thorn watched his Rider. _Faolin, _the older dragon said suddenly. _If that Halfling wakes, will you protect my Dragon Rider? _

Faolin blinked, startled.

_I'm hurt,_ Thorn explained softly. _If something happens I—I don't know if I could reach Murtagh in time. So will you protect him?_

Faolin blinked at the great-red-dragon, his nostrils flared at the scent of blood, his mind buzzing with everything he had seen and heard today.

_Thorn risked his life, _he thought. _For Saphira, for Eragon's dragon. He's… he's not my enemy. Arya is wrong. They're our friends. They loved Eragon as much as she did. _

He looked Thorn in the eye.

_Yes, _he said simply. _I'll protect Murtagh for you. _

Thorn rumbled, pleased. _Thanks. _

_You're our friends, _Faolin said. _You're _my _friends. You're… you're… _

_Pack? _The wounded-tired-dragon murmered.

Faolin straightened his shoulders. _Yes, _he rumbled, and he felt old and wise. _You're pack._

* * *

**Again, please tell me what you think, your opinions, whatever; I need them! I gotta get back in on this, I _gotta. _**

**~WSS**


	14. Chapter Thirteen: The Tale of Caspar

**Note: Both Chapters 12 and 13 occur at the same time. Faolin does not know what is going on with Arya and vice versa.**

**Disclaimer: Inheritance is not mine.**

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"The important thing is this: To be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become." -Charles Du Bos

Chapter Fourteen: The Tale of Caspar

"You cannot seriously be considering this," Islanzadí said, her face shrouded in shadow. "This is a new height of foolishness, even for you."

Arya watched her mother's face impassively, ignoring the anger and scorn in the Elf Queen's words. "How is it foolish?" She challenged. "If I succeed we will have our greatest champion returned to us."

"_If _you succeed. I have no doubt in your abilities, Arya, but the task before you is impossible for one sole person, even a Rider, even an elf, to complete. You are talking about leaving the known boundaries of Alagaesia, alone, without anyone except your young dragon to rely on. Do you realize how _dangerous _it is?"

"More so than you," Arya retorted, grabbing the edges of the mirror. "Griffin has told me all he knows about the lands beyond, and what I might find there. I'm perfectly prepared to go on this journey, Mother."

"Ah yes, the Gray One," Islanzadí said. "Of course _he _knows. Tell me, has he ever been there? Has he _seen _the places he's sending you off to?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Exactly," the Queen snapped, her eyes flashing fire. "This is a fool's errand, Arya. There is a _reason _we don't know what lies beyond the eastern borders, a _reason _why the Mad King of Alagaesia himself does not dare try to reach past the Hadrac. Those lands are wild, untamed. You will not find a friend there, or any sort of civilized life at all. There is nothing but animals and magic, magic enough to drive even an elf mad."

Arya frowned. "How do you know this, Mother, if you have not been there yourself?"

"I am the Queen of the Elves," she replied dryly. "The knowledge of our people has been passed down to me from the very first of our Kings, through memory and through writings in the Great Library. If I so chose, I can know all, perhaps as much as these Gray Folk claim to know, perhaps more."

"What are you saying?"

Islanzadí almost smiled. "I am saying, Arya, that there have been journeys into the east before, and none of them have ended well."

"When was the last journey?"

"When my grandmother was a child, over five thousand years ago. She remembered it clearly, and passed the memory down through the family. They looked so grand, the army, and it was said that they could reach the edges of the world."

"An _army_ was sent to the east?" Shock colored Arya's voice imperceptibly.

"A host of five hundred, yes. We called them the Army of Leaves and they were the best of that generation, the greatest warriors, the bravest young men and women. The elves watched them march off into the east proudly, and they thought they would return before the next summer. Vigils were kept for them and epic poems were written, and some of the soldiers even sent messages back, describing the wild wonders that lay beyond."

"Why were we not told about this, in our history lessons?" Arya asked. She had never heard of the Army of Leaves before, which was troubling. History was prized among the elves and passed down to the next generation with great care.

"We are ashamed, I think," Islanzadí said. "Five hundred of our strongest warriors went off into the east, my daughter, and not a single one returned."

Arya stared.

"The messages stopped coming two months into their journey. It was imagined that they had encountered trouble, perhaps a magical barrier like the one surrounding Du Weldenvarden, or that the distance was too great to send letter-carriers over. The elves were not worried. But months passed without word, and then the summer came. And then another summer, and another. Soon a decade had passed and the Army of Leaves had not returned, and it was concluded that they had all been lost."

"Five hundred elves," Arya murmured.

"Lost," Islanzadí said softly. "Two Dragon Riders, Melchior and Dresden, were sent to the east to find the army. Neither returned, and to this day we do not know where they went or if they found the Army of Leaves at all."

Arya was silent, thinking. She could feel Faolin at the edges of her thoughts, and he was a hundred different emotions at once, fear, anger, love, pain. Her heart ached. She wanted to reach out to him, comfort him, take his mind into her own and soothe his fears, but she couldn't, not now. Now she was talking to her mother, and Islanzadí would take any emotion as weakness.

Arya could not be weak, not now.

"Surely not all of the expeditions have ended in such tragedy," Arya murmured. "We know a little of the lands beyond—the stories must come from somewhere. Someone _has _to have returned."

Islanzadí hesitated, and Arya suddenly knew that yes, someone had gone past the borders and returned, and her mother did not want to say because she didn't want to give her daughter ideas.

"Who," Arya said fiercely, drawing herself up. She almost wished she was speaking to her mother in person, but her mother was with the elves in Teirm. "Who has gone and returned, Mother?"

Islanzadí made a frustrated sound in her throat and tossed her hair, much like a wild horse.

"Mother," Arya said lowly. "I will ask Griffin, if I must."

"Fine," the Queen snapped, and Arya could see her anger and once again wondered about the sudden emotions running deep in the elves. "His name was Caspar the Wanderer."

Arya frowned again. She had not learned of him in her history lessons either, and she wondered if the elves were ashamed of him also.

"He was a warrior of high status during Du Fryn Skulblaka, much revered and respected by our people. He slew many dragons and protected our people as best as he could, with fury and fire unmatched by all others. When Eragon the First urged the elves to bind themselves with the dragons, his voice spoke against it the loudest. He hated the dragons, for they had killed his parents and his sister, as well as his eldest son. When the pact was sealed and our fates forever entwined with that of the dragons, he withdrew from the public and spent his days in his home, in Ilirea.

"One day, he vanished. Many thought that he was unable to bear the way dragons and elves were comingling, both in magic and in mind. The land was searched for the people still loved and respected him, but he could not be found. The trackers followed him to the Hadrac desert and then lost his trail. It was assumed that he simply walked into the east, and it was decided that he was dead."

"But he returned," Arya said.

"Yes," Islanzadí murmured. "Five years later Caspar returned to Ilirea a changed elf. He no longer hated the dragons and the Riders; he accepted them with open arms. He called them his brothers and spoke to them of their gods, which stunned the dragons because they shared their gods with no one. Caspar claimed that one night alone in his home he had been overcome by a longing so great he couldn't resist, and he followed a call he heard in his soul to the east.

"He walked for many months through the lands east and told of his experiences there, and then he reached the end of the world, a place he called the Forest of the Mother. He stayed there for two years, eating nothing, drinking nothing, only basking in a river of faces, talking to those he called gods, learning all they had to teach." Islanzadí fell silent for a moment, her face closed off.

Arya's mind whirled. Someone _had _been to the golden forest, someone had paved the way. It _was _possible.

"It is said that Caspar journeyed to the Realms of the Dead," the Queen continued, so quietly Arya could barely hear her. "That he spoke with those he had loved and lost, and they told him many things those in the living world could not know or understand. When he returned to the living world, this knowledge drove him… mad, more or less."

"He was insane?"

Islanzadí shook her head. "Not in the way you think," she said. "He was no Galbatorix, no rabid animal, but he wasn't _normal, _not anymore. Harmless, but not normal."

"Did any others believe him?" Arya murmured, thinking.

"No. Most thought him mad. They thought he had simply wandered into the desert and gone insane from loneliness and thirst, and that his adventures in the Realms of the Dead were a crazed dream. Even his family, his old friends, rejected him and forced him to live on the outskirts of Ilirea. No one listened to his stories, and crazy old Caspar, the only being to go into the east and return, faded into anonymity.

"Caspar lived alone for many years, and then one day he vanished."

Islanzadí paused and Arya thought she looked tired, incredibly, thoroughly tired.

"They followed his trail into the Hadarac once again, but he was gone, and no one has seen him since."

Arya was silent, pondering, turning it over and over again in her head. "Caspar the Wanderer," she said. "We did not learn about him either. I suppose we were ashamed?"

"No," said the Queen. "It is not shame the elves feel for Caspar. It is fear."

"Fear?"

Islanzadí smiled faintly. "Fear," she said, "that we will lose our young people like we lost Caspar, to things that don't exist, and if they do, that have no business in the lives of the elves."

"Caspar returned," Arya said.

"Not the same Caspar. The elves lost a great, fearless warrior and received a madman raving about gods and ghosts and Death. The elves lost a leader, and when we sent the Army of Leaves in his footsteps we lost a fighting force that could have won us the first war against Galbatorix. Do you understand, Arya? Caspar's path is ruinous. You will either die or return to us mad, and I absolutely forbid you to go."

Almost at once anger flared in Arya's gut, old and familiar. "You cannot _forbid _me, Mother. You tried it and it didn't work."

"I forbade you from joining the Varden," the Queen said lowly. "I forbade you from becoming Saphira's carrier. I forbade you from becoming attached to Eragon, and look what has happened to you since. Every step you have taken away from your people has wounded you, my child. You're hurting. You mingle willingly with people who will kill you, Arya."

Arya stared at her mother through the mirror, her skin prickling uncomfortably.

Islanzadí looked softer and sadder than Arya had ever seen her. "You are my daughter," the Queen of the Elves began. "My only child, my heir. You remind me of your father in so many ways, and I love you with all of my heart."

Arya was stiff, frozen, waiting.

"If you choose this journey, if you choose to follow Eragon into the east, you will no longer be a member of our people."

Arya suddenly couldn't breathe. "What?"

Islanzadí's face seemed to be carved from stone. "If you take this journey, you will no longer be an elf. You will not be our Princess, my heir; your people will not acknowledge you as more than a Dragon Rider. You will be barred from entrance into Du Weldenvarden; Ellesméra will reject you. Your name will be struck from the Book of the People and you will lose your inheritance. You will no longer be my daughter, and your people shall treat you as one dead."

Arya stared at her mother, bewildered, and her heart screamed, sharp and sudden, before she smothered it. Faolin did not need to know; he was only a child, he had been through enough pain, this, this wasn't his to carry.

"Mother," she whispered, and agony ripped a new hole in her chest. "How could you?"

The Queen of the Elves did not look her daughter in the eye. "It is better," she said lowly. "For me to strike you from my heart than to lose you to the east."

"I'm your _daughter_," Arya snarled, anger welling to accompany the pain. "Your only daughter, the heir to your _kingdom. _If you die, who shall lead?"

Islanzadí smiled a bit. "Arya," she said. "You were never going to take my place as Queen. You're heart isn't made for it. I realize that now. So tell me, will you go east? Or will you stay, where you belong?"

Arya stared at her mother, shocked, furious. Her mother—no, the Queen—was exiling her. Removing her from her people, her home, because she wouldn't obey. Islanzadí wouldn't accept her daughter, that much was clear.

Maybe, if Arya looked deep enough, it had always been clear.

Her path was obvious.

"Queen Islanzadí," she said stiffly, hiding her pain, her anger. "I am going east. You cannot stop me; if I am exiled, so be it. Eragon is more important than any title, any inheritance."

Islanzadí bowed her head. "You have always been a stubborn child," she murmured. "Very well. You have chosen your path, as we all must. From this day forth, Arya Drottningu, Daughter of Islanzadí, you shall be Daughter of None. The elves will no longer call you sister; you are not welcome in our lands. Our people will not bow to you. They will not greet you. You shall walk among the elves as one dead to us."

Arya's eyes stung and her heart throbbed, but she would not weep, not here, not in front of the elf-woman who was so easily dismissing her.

"You shall find yourself a new race to belong to," the Queen continued, and her voice shook slightly. "For you are called elf no longer."

Arya closed her eyes. "I hear and accept," she said, and her own voice was remarkably steady. "From this day I am not a princess, nor am I an elf. I shall not call myself Drottningu, nor the daughter of Islanzadí."

"It is done," Islandzadí whispered, and the two women stared at each other through their mirrors, no longer mother and daughter, queen and subject. "For what it's worth, I hope your task is possible. I would hate for all this pain to be for naught."

Arya kept her shoulders straight, her spine stiff. "Goodbye," she said, reaching for the flow of magic to severe the connection.

Islanzadí's eyes glittered, almost as if they were wet. "I shall mourn you," she said, and then she was gone.

The mirror was blank and cold, and all Arya saw was her own face, pale, sharp-eyed. Pain bloomed hot and ragged inside and she fought it down again, hiding it from Faolin, from herself.

She hurt.

She had just lost her entire people.

_And over what? _A soft, traitorous little voice whispered. _Legends? Fairy tales? The fragile string of hope you cling to, even when all else denies it?_

_Over Eragon, _she thought, extinguishing all the light in the room. _He is worth it. He is worth more; if I had more to give, I would do so, if it would bring him back. _

And she knew it to be true. Eragon—even the slightest chance of bringing him back from the Vault of Souls—was worth entire kingdoms.

She loved him.

And even if her own people rejected her, Arya knew Eragon never would. He was too kind, too noble, too friendly to ever betray her. He loved her.

It would have to be enough.

Arya squared her shoulders, walking from the room. _I will not hide, _she vowed. _I will not sit here wallowing in my misery. The elves have rejected me; I cannot rely on them any longer. _

_But I cannot go into the east alone, and I can't afford to wait much longer. _

Arya stopped at the edges of the Burned District, her feet sinking into the snow. Belatona was asleep, dark, smothered by the clouds. With her sharper eyes she could make out the shape of the city, the sloping roofs, the sharp rise of the keep.

She closed her eyes.

The elves had rejected her.

But the Dragon Riders would not.

And one of them would go with her to the ends of the earth itself if it meant saving Eragon.

With her eyes still closed, Arya steeled her heart and reached out with her mind, forming a clear image behind her eyes.

_Murtagh?_

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**~WSS**


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Vows

**Hi! So, here's the deal; I have 25 days to finish this story, and several chapters written. So, expect multiple chapters posted at the same time successively. **

**Many thanks to all you lovely reviewers and Arya Shadeslayer for betaing!**

**Dislaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. **

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"The given word is more dangerous than the sharpest blade." -Ancient Proverb

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Chapter Fourteen: Vows

Murtagh's hands burned. Hot blood, both Halfling and dragon, steamed around him, singing his skin, and he bit down on a curse as the Halfling gave a feeble, rasping cough.

_It's not working, Thorn, _he said. _I can't—there's so much damage. _

_Heal it, _Thorn encouraged. _It knows where Saphira is. We need what it knows. _

_I have to heal you too, _Murtagh said fiercely. _I'll not sacrifice your life for it. I will not use another spell if this one doesn't work, understand?_

Thorn growled, and the sound was wet and harsh with blood.

_I'm not arguing with you, _Murtagh warned. _You are far more important than any knowledge this Halfling may have. _

The crimson dragon curled his lip, obviously disagreeing, but he was too tired—or too weak—to argue with his Rider. His vast eyes slid closed. _Very well. _

Murtagh snorted and returned to the task at hand—trying to drag this ruined, mostly-dead Halfling from Death's jaws.

Privately, he thought there wasn't much of a chance of it living much longer. Thorn had utterly _destroyed _it. Its wings were shattered, both forelegs, one hindleg , and its jaw were broken, it had at least four cracked ribs, and what wasn't broken was gashed, burned, and badly bruised. Its left foreleg would have to be amputated entirely. It hung from a few strands of tendon and the flesh was blackened where Thorn had cauterized the wound, probably to stop it from bleeding to death.

All in all, the creature was a wreck, and Murtagh seriously doubted it would ever fight again.

_But it has to live, _Thorn said firmly. _It has to._

Murtagh said nothing, instead gathering his magic and _pressing _with it, wrapping it tightly around the Halflings broken ribcage. He let the magic pool in its injuries, slip deep into the worst of the damage, and then with a muttered sentence he pulled the magic back towards him.

Bones cracked back into place, scales roughly knit themselves back together, blood sealed itself inside veins again. It wasn't the gentlest way to heal—the Halfling made a high, keening sound of agony—but it was effective, and Murtagh let go of the magic and stepped back, panting.

The creature was more or less alive now, its bones back where they should be, new scars littering its body. Murtagh didn't heal its wings well enough for it to fly and its legs were still broken—set, but broken—so it wouldn't be escaping any time soon.

_Or moving, _Murtagh thought, but he felt no pity for the beast. It would live, and that was enough.

He turned to Thorn.

_You _idiot, he muttered, and he felt slightly ill at the sight of _his _dragon's injuries. His magic rippled from his fingertips, gentle, soothing, and he began the tired work of knitting muscles together, tying flesh to bone, closing arteries. He couldn't _force _it like he had with the Halfling—he didn't want Thorn to heal crippled.

_We are going to have a serious talk, _he informed the crimson dragon. _You have to _tell _me where you're going, what you're going to do, and why you're going to do it. _

_I didn't plan it, _Thorn said defensively. _I just wanted to—to fly, to clear my head a little. _

_You nearly _died, _you idiot. _

_Yes, _the dragon admitted, and at least he had the decency to sound ashamed. _I didn't plan that, though. I just wanted to see Saphira._

_Saphira? _Murtagh smacked his forehead with a bloody palm. _This is about she-dragons, isn't it?_

_She's a _friend, Thorn snapped. _I have a duty to her, as her strong-right-wing. _

Murtagh sobered. _Yes, I suppose you do. She's alright, then?_

_I don't know, _Thorn said worriedly. _I saw her in the Halfling's mind—she's in a cage of some kind, and she doesn't eat or sleep or talk to anyone. She's hurt really badly. _

_Of course she is. Her Rider died. _Pain twisted in Murtagh's chest. _It's astounding that she's even alive. _

Thorn shifted, winced. Blood seeped into the already-soaked snow, and Murtagh cursed. His power was dwindling. He'd used up a good bit of it—too much, probably—healing the Halfling, and now his own dragon needed his power—

_You're not going to die on me, damn it, _he swore. _I won't lose you. _

_I won't die, _Thorn promised. _I'll be fine, you can stop. _

_You're still bleeding. _

_Draw on the Eldunarí. _

Cursing himself for not thinking of that before, Murtagh reached out and brushed against the Eldunarí. Sirocco, an old dragon who had once been Galbatorix's teacher, responded first, a warm curl of thought trailing against Murtagh's own.

The red Rider winced. He didn't particularly like the Eldunarí; it felt too much like _slavery _for him to be entirely comfortable using them. And the last time he had been fond of one of the souls, Galbatorix had used the blackest of magics to transform the dead soul into a living egg. It was unnatural, and mostly Murtagh's fault, and he hated it.

_Young Rider, _Sirocco rumbled. _What do you need?_

_My dragon is wounded, _Murtagh said, trying to hide his discomfort. _I don't have enough magic to heal him fully. May I borrow some of yours?_

_You are leading the Riders in Eragon's place, are you not? _Sirocco said. His voice was laced with curiosity.

_I am. _

_Then my power is yours to use. _The old dragon sent a rush of energy towards Murtagh and he felt it flood his mouth, making his hair stand on end and power crackle down his fingers. It felt like lightning, and Murtagh choked on it.

"Heal," he gasped, and let it _go, _sending the lightning-taste thrilling through Thorn, anything to get it _out—_

Sirocco hummed in the dragon-language, and then he was gone.

Murtagh knelt next to his bloody dragon, and tried to relearn how to breath.

_The old _bastard, he thought, fingers twitching. Leftover shocks of power made his leg scream and his chest too tight—he couldn't stand, or breathe, and the sky flashed in front of his eyes—

_Storm clouds, heavy and dark, torn apart by Shruikan's massive body. Blue light from an Eldunarí, the air rent by rainbow-tails of Earl Tariku's power. Galbatorix screaming, laughing, hurling bolt after bolt of lighting at _his _clan. A duel on dragon-back, swords flashing, blood flying, life and death throbbing between them—_

_The crackle of lightning, terrible _heat, _falling, falling—_

_Eragon—_

_Falling—_

Pain flared at Murtagh's elbow and he inhaled, heaving a breath, snapping back into his body. The ground was cold underneath him and his body was hot, shivering.

Blood roared in his ears and he heard a low, furious growl, fire-tinged, underneath it all.

_Murtagh! _Thorn roared, butting him with his massive head. _Murtagh, breathe, it's okay, breathe, I'll _kill _him, smash his Eldunarí, just breathe—_

_I'm alright, _the red Rider said unsteadily, resting a hand on Thorn's nose. His arm was bleeding freely; Thorn had nicked him with his long teeth to bring him back from the lightning-dream. _Thank you. _

_Are you sure? _His dragon nosed him anxiously, vermillion eyes wide and startled.

_Yes. _

Thorn rumbled a fierce growl. _He shouldn'tve done that, _he said grimly. _That was _wrong, _you did nothing to him. Sirocco is one of the older ones, he should know better. _

_What did he do?_

_Gave you lightning-power. Made his world-will-energy feel like lightning, on _purpose.

_Dragons can do that?_

Thorn growled, showing his teeth. _Dragon-magic is different from yours, _he said. _It is storm-power, fang-and-claw. _

_None of the other Eldunarí have done that. _

_None of them have tried. _

Murtagh fell silent, stroking Thorn's nose. His heart skittered in his chest and it hurt to breathe; his chest felt raw, cracked open, like he had been struck all over again.

_What _was _that? _Little Faolin's nostrils were flared and his eyes were wide, nearly as startled as Thorn's. The young dragon skirted the Halfling warily and came to stand beside Murtagh, almost close enough to touch, and his slightly deformed tail twitched anxiously.

_Nothing, little one, _Murtagh said, trying to sound reassuring. _Just a grumpy old dragon. _To Sirocco he snapped _I've dealt with Shruikan on a bad day. If you want to frighten me, or punish me, you're going to have to try harder than that. _

He got the distinct impression that Sirocco was laughing at him.

Faolin straightened suddenly, peering into the snowy darkness. _Arya! _he shouted, bounding from Murtagh's side. He nearly bowled his Rider over as she emerged from the trees, a green werelight in her palm.

"Arya," Murtagh greeted, stilling his face. He wished he could stand, but his leg wasn't going to let him. The lightning-tremors ran through it still, and he clamped a hand on it to stop it from shaking.

The elf-woman dipped her head. "Murtagh." She rested her hand on Faolin's neck, gripping a spine tightly. "Why do you have my dragon?"

_She's going to hit me again. _"I needed his help," he said in the ancient language. "Thorn was too injured to reach the city and I was too injured to get out in time. He brought a Halfling prisoner—" Murtagh gestured at the beast, —"and both he and it were in serious need of healing."

Arya's face blackened. "You _rode _my dragon?"

"No!" Murtagh said. That was a great insult among Riders, he knew, riding another's dragon without permission. "Faolin carried me in his claws. I would never presume to ride him."

_It's true, _Faolin added, shooting Murtagh an unreadable glance. _He needed help. Thorn was going to die if he didn't get there in time. _

Arya's shoulders loosened fractionally. "Very well," she said. "I cannot blame you for trying to save your dragon."

"Thanks," Murtagh said, the pain making him dry and brittle. "Is that why you sought me out?"

Arya didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to look over the Halfling. "Why do you keep it alive?"

"It has information on Uru'baen and Saphira," Murtagh said. "Information that could save her."

At once, Arya's features softened. "That is a good reason," she admitted. "Do you need my help?"

The red Rider blinked, startled, and was instantly wary. "Forgive me for sounding ungrateful, but _why_? A week ago you tried to kill me."

Arya shrugged delicately. "Circumstances have changed," she said flatly, and he saw pain flare briefly behind her eyes. Faolin nuzzled her, a soft sound humming in his throat. She scratched his scales and looked Murtagh in the eye.

"The Halfling will survive," Murtagh said. "My clan will be here to move it shortly; I have them meeting now."

The elf-woman nodded. "Good," she murmured, and paused. "Do you still dream of the lands to the east? Of the plains, and the lake, and the golden forest?"

Murtagh frowned, and Thorn stiffened. "Yes," he said slowly. "Why do you ask?"

She hesitated again, and he felt her conflict pulse raggedly at the edges of her power. "I do not wish to be your friend." Her voice was blunt.

_Ouch. _

"I do not find you to be an appealing person, and I blame you for Eragon's death."

Thorn snarled deeply, baring his fangs, and Faolin flinched.

Arya held up a hand. "But that does not mean I hate you, or that I am too stubborn to work with you," she said. "I see the value in living as part of your—of Eragon's—clan, and also that you are a good leader, despite your flaws, and that you _care _about those under your care." She paused, swallowed. "And you know the way."

Murtagh arched an eyebrow. "The way?" he said.

"To the golden forest," Arya continued, "to the Forest of the Mother, where Death lies under the Rock of Kuthain."

"_Death?_"

The elf-woman nodded, and took a deep breath. "At Oromis and Glaedr's burial—"

Murtagh winced.

"—the elves sang the Sorrowsong, which is our oldest and most powerful form of grieving. It is magic, transformed into our grief, and it has been known to summon the phoenix."

The red Rider blinked. "A _phoenix—"_ he began, but Arya held up her hand to stop him.

"They exist," she said. "Or perhaps only one does, but the phoenix came, and at the completion of the Sorrowsong, when all our grief had been expended, it dropped a feather and vanished.

"Islanzadí the Elf Queen gave the feather to Eragon, for some of our people believe phoenix feathers have special properties. She gave Eragon the feather and told him that, at the Vault of Souls which lies beneath the Rock of Kuthain, he could present the feather to Death himself and receive one soul back from the dead in return."

Murtagh felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Bring someone _back to life?_"

Arya nodded.

"No," he said. "That's not possible. It's the first thing we're taught; no matter how hard you try, you can never bring someone who has died back, it doesn't _work _like that. The dead are dead."

Faolin made a sound in his throat that Thorn echoed, and Arya shrugged, a little sadly. "I personally am more inclined to agree with you," she said sofly. "Elf-children have been taught, for many centuries, that Death is final; there is no god of Death, and therefore there is no bargaining. The dead are dead; they cannot return."

"But your mother told Eragon it was possible?"

"Apparently, she believes it is," Arya said. "I am beginning to doubt that our lack of gods has always existed; it has recently come to my attention that for centuries, the teachers have been burying parts of our history and hiding them from the younger generations."

"Why?"

"Shame," she said, and her mouth twisted. "Pride. Fear. I am not sure of the reasons, but I know it has been happening. As Queen, Islanzadí is privy to all the information in our Library, which is our _history, _from the time we were first born an ocean away to now. Records cannot be removed from the Library; it is a sin to our people. So if anyone knew the secrets elves have buried, she would."

"She believes the dead can come back," Murtagh murmured. He could scarcely wrap his mind around it.

_Thorn, _he breathed. _What if I could bring Eragon back?_

"With a phoenix feather to trade with, yes."

"Why a feather?"

Arya shrugged again. "It is a dragon-legend," she said. "I do not know. Ask Glaedr, or Sirocco."

_Of course. _

"Do you believe it?"

Arya looked away. "I don't know," she murmured, more to herself. "I don't—" She shook herself, hard. "If there's a chance, I'm taking it."

"You're going to try and find the Vault of Souls? Isn't it lost?"

The elf-woman smiled bitterly, stroking Faolin's head. "You know where it is," she said. "You dream it, don't you?"

"The Vault of Souls is in the golden forest?" Murtagh frowned, remembered walking for nights upon nights, through plains and desert and across lakes, over rolling hills, towards the sound of running water and gleaming, pure light.

Arya nodded. "Griffin the Gray One gave me a map," she said. "But he says it's not a _true _map. Some places are perilous, and will kill, and others will lead to nothing. He says that the map is the _idea _of the East, but not an actual path to the East itself." Her face twisted into something angry and hurt. "I do not know the way. I cannot get there, by myself."

She looked at him expectantly.

_She wants me to go with her, _Murtagh realized, like a bolt of lightning. He staggered to his feet, all his pain forgotten. _Thorn, she wants me to go _with _her, to try and bring Eragon back. _

_I know, _Thorn said, and his eyes were wide and wondering. _Is it possible? Can we do it?_

_I could bring Eragon back. He wouldn't have to die for me. Everything would be okay again. _

"You have the feather," he said. "And I know the way—" _at least, I think I do "—_and you want to work together? To bring Eragon back?"

"As I said," Arya murmured. "I do not like you, but for Eragon, I am willing to work with you, and travel to the ends of the earth with you. Will you come? Will you lead me to the golden forest and atone for your sins?"

She offered him her hand, and her eyes were hard and serious.

Murtagh licked his lips.

_I could bring Eragon back…_

_Thorn?_

His dragon was standing too, shaking off blood and rent scales. _Do it, _he said. _If we bring Eragon back, Saphira will be okay again! She'll be alive, and she can escape, and we can be _pack_. _

_Alright, _Murtagh said, and limped forward, taking a deep breath.

He took Arya's hand.

"I'll go with you," he said.

"Swear it." Her voice was steel, unyielding, and he felt her magic pull at him, whispering, alien, frightening. "Swear to me that you will go, and do whatever it takes to get me to the Rock of Kuthain."

Murtagh hesitated, his hands shaking. Bind himself again, when Galbatorix had made him a slave, when Eragon's death had broken his last bond and left him weakened, hurting.

_But I can bring him _back….

He breathed, and he heard Thorn and Faolin and Sirocco humming in his head, and underneath it all fire's deep, humming snarl.

"I, Murtagh Stormbreaker, son of Morzan," he said, the words tripping off his tongue and wrapping themselves as chains around his wrists, "swear to accompany you, Arya Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider, to the ends of the earth, to bring back my brother."

Arya's eyes gleamed.

"Swear," he said. "That you will do all it takes too, that you will bear the burden equally, as part of my clan, as my partner."

"I," she said, and her voice was steady, "Arya Shadeslayer, daughter of none—"

_What?_

"—swear to accompany you, Murtagh Stormbreaker, brother of Eragon, to the ends of the earth, to bring Eragon Shadeslayer back from the dead."

For a moment Murtagh thought he heard the fire inside scream, and saw light flare in a hundred molten threads between him and Arya, and then the screams died and the light went out, and he and Arya were standing in the snow.

"It is done," she said, and their dragons roared and roared.

* * *

**Onward!**

**~WSS**


	16. Chapter Fifteen: The Gray Lands

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"What remains to him? Tall Time wonders. What thoughts and smells, what names? Or are there only sensations and a clutter of incompatible words?" -Barbara Gowdy, _The White Bone_

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Chapter Fifteen: The Gray Lands

The river slid through the gray forest, and it was living silver. A man sat in the grass on the shore, watching the water, his face still and thoughtful.

He didn't know who he was. He supposed he didn't care, particularly, that he didn't know, but still, it _bothered _him, just a little.

He felt like he should know.

The river flowed past him quietly—_completely and utterly silent_—and the waters flashed, offering bits of color. Faces and memories glittered in the depths, and every now and then the man by the river thought he saw someone or something he recognized; a familiar face, a grassy knoll, a waterfall, tall trees.

These images leaped out at him, and then were washed away.

The man was confused. He watched the river, alive with faces, and frowned, trying to hold on to the fragments, to faces and trees and waterfalls, only to have them slip through his fingers.

His chest ached, and he didn't know why.

Frustrated, the man stood, shaking bits of grass and leaf from his hair—he'd been sitting for days—_weeks months—_and he'd almost become part of the landscape, like so many others.

He could see them now, the others, beings who were once like him, with faces and arms and legs. Now they were rocks, hills, and trees, their eyes closed, their faces frozen and still. Moss grew on their sides and faint wind ruffled their grassy heads.

They were the dead, who were asleep, and one day the man would join them. He wasn't bothered by it, really, since nothing bothered him anymore, except not knowing. He wondered what it would be like to be a rock, or a tree. Did they feel? Could they think? Or were they just rocks who happened to look like people?

The man wandered alongside the river, passing through the still bodies.

It was cold. There wasn't a sun in the sky—the light came from the river and bathed everything silver, and ice nestled on his skin.

He was cold, and tired, and confused. He wanted to stop, to close his eyes for a while, but he knew that if he stopped, he'd never move again. He'd be the next rock, or the next tree, and then…

_Then what? _He thought, and almost stopped walking. _Then what?_

If he slept, what did it matter? He had nothing to wake up to, after all. He was dead. He knew this.

The man frowned and kept walking, padding next to the twisting, silent river. The Gray Lands stretched on and on, as far as he could see—

_(his eyesight was better now, sharper, and he wondered how he could've seen with human eyes at all, when elfin eyes were this much better_)

He kept walking, and the memory, a spark of joy, cooled in his chest. It was only a piece, after all, a random flare of happiness. He had nothing to compare that happiness to, no other memories to connect it with. It was useless, really, by itself, and he dipped his fingers in the freezing river and let the memory float away.

His hand came up shiny, covered in droplets of thoughts that clung to his skin, and he wiped them off on his shirt. He didn't need them, did he?

The man kept walking, and the cold air bit the inside of his lungs, so he stopped breathing. His mouth tasted like heat and ash—

(_lightning, a glow, and fire-fangs ripping _out—)

—and he licked his lips. They were dry.

As he walked, the man tilted his head to look at this world. There wasn't much to see. A forest, gray and washed out, clung to the shoreline, dotted with trees and rocks that had once been living creatures. The sky was too far away to see—it hung overhead like blackness. There were no animals, nothing moving except the man and a few others like himself who knew that if they stopped, they'd sleep and never wake up.

The only color was the river, a strong, moving band of silver, and the flashes of color sparkling in its depths. The newly dead drifted in, borne by the tide, and were pulled deeper into the Gray Lands. When they awoke, they would stumble ashore and lie on the banks, and then turn into stone like all the rest.

For some reason, the man didn't want to be like them. He didn't want to be stone. He frowned again—it wasn't like he had anything to wake up for, so why bother—and kept walking.

It was important to keep walking.

He kept going.

"You're a little far from home, aren't you, son?"

The man jumped and turned, nearly falling into the river in shock.

Another man, tall and young-looking, smiled kindly. He was strange, _alive_-looking. His skin wasn't gray and washed out, but pink and healthy, and his eyes were a deep, sparkling green. He looked oddly familiar, but the man couldn't place him.

"Do not be frightened, young one," said the newcomer. "I'm here to help."

The man stared—he'd forgotten what talking sounded like—before licking his lips. "Who are you?" he croaked. His voice was gravelly and harsh from disuse, almost like a dragon's growl. He frowned.

_How do I know what a dragon's growl sounds like?_

"You may call me Guide," said the newcomer. "I have a name, but I doubt you will remember it. I am here to help you."

The man frowned. "Help me?"

Guide nodded. "You are lost," he said. "And I am here to help you find your way."

"Lost?"

"Young one." Guide swept a wide hand outwards, gesturing at the river, the forest, the gray, dull earth. "You do not think that this is all there is to Death, do you?"

The man blinked. "Of course it is," he said. "How can there be any more?"

Guide's smile was sad. "There is always more, young one. You just have to look for it."

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," said Guide, "but I cannot tell you."

"Why not?" The man stepped closer, staring into Guide's deep green eyes.

"It is something you must discover for yourself."

"I don't—" The man looked away, his jaw angry and clenched. Confusion and frustration pooled in his gut, warming his cold limbs, and he balled his hands into fists.

His chest hurt.

"Would you like to stay here, young one?" Guide asked. His hair was raven-black and straight, his ears pointed. He looked like a king, almost, his body held upright and regal. He certainly didn't look like any kind of guide.

The man narrowed his eyes. "You're trying to trick me," he said. "This is all a plan to capture me, to torture me again—"

"Again?" said Guide, and he smiled a little.

The man stopped short. _Again, _he thought. _Have I been captured before? _He wracked through his memory and came up with handfuls of fog—nothing. He remembered nothing.

"Will you help me?" he asked. "Remember, I mean."

Guide nodded deeply. "I will," he said, and he was speaking a different language but the man understood it. "And there will be others, along the way, who will also help."

"Why?"

Guide smiled. "You are far too important, young one, to rot out Time here in the Gray Lands. You are needed elsewhere."

The man frowned. "I am?"

"Yes." Guide held out an arm, pointing against the river's flow, on and on into the plains of the dead. "You must walk," he said. "Walk and do not stop. Others will be there along the way, to guide you, to help you."

"What if I get tired?" The man knew, of course, that if he stopped, he wouldn't move again, but he wanted to keep talking to this stranger. He'd been lonely, really, all these days—_weeks, months_—since he'd awoken on the shore.

"You mustn't," said Guide gently. "You must keep walking, young one, and discover yourself on the way."

"I can't remember anything," the man pointed out. "Memories run from me. I can't hold them."

Guide nodded. "A common problem here, actually," he said, digging around inside the folds of his robe. "The River takes them all." He pulled out a flask made of sparkling bronze and cradled it in his palm.

"If I give you this," he warned, "there is no turning back. If you stop, you will sleep, and never awaken. Do you understand?"

The man stared at the flask and his fingers itched—it called to him. He looked down at his shaking hands and noticed, for the first time, a large silvery scar etched into his palm. He touched it, and the skin was smooth.

"I understand," he said, and reached for the flask.

Guide handed it to him and he turned it over and over in his hands. It was a warm, solid weight, and he felt some of the cold leave his limbs.

"Everything you remember," Guide ordered, "put inside the flask. It will hold the memories for you, until you are ready to keep them."

The man swallowed, suddenly, unexpectedly nervous. "You'll guide me? You'll help me get out of here?"

Guide smiled. "I and many others," he promised, and offered the man his hand.

The man by the riverside took it, and lightning crackled up and down his fingers, color leeching back into his gray, gritty skin.

Guide nodded, pleased. "Come," he said. "Let us wake."

* * *

**Kudos to anyone who guess just who Guide is :D**

**A note: This Land of the Dead is inspired by two literary sources: _Inkdeath, _by Cornelia Funke, and _The Sight, _by David Clement Davis. I have mashed them together and mixed in my own elements. **

**More soon!**

**~WSS**


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Jensen

**See, told you I had some more written! :D **

**Many thanks to all of you who have reviewed, and guessed who Guide is! One person got it right! Woo!**

**Also, HUGE thanks to Arya Shadeslayer. You are amazing, dear :). **

**Disclaimer: Inheritance Cycle is not mine. **

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"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." -Sun Tzu, Chinese military strategist

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Chapter Sixteen: Jensen

Roran leaned on Jensen and tried to pay attention. Captain Derek was talking, pointing out various men and tents and areas of the Red Guard's camp, and looking at Roran like he expected him to listen.

The Varden's general nodded, hoping it was enough to satisfy the captain, and Derek seemed pleased enough to keep talking.

"You're not really paying attention, are you?" whispered Jensen sympathetically.

"No," Roran muttered back. "World's spinnin'."

"It's too soon for you to be out here," the healer muttered. "You'll catch infection and die, and then where will the Captain's plans for you go, hmm?"

"Th' cap has plans? F'r me?" Roran didn't even need to pretend to be surprised. An Imperial Captain, leader of one of the Guards, have plans for a young, wounded man he just met?

_Well, I did tell him I was a survivor of Yazuac, and that I fought and defeated a monster…_

"Oh yes," said Jensen grimly. "Big plans. Cap over there wants to restore the Red Guard to its former glory, and he thinks the best way to do that is through berserkers like you."

"Bers'rker?"

Jensen gave his charge a flat, unreadable look. "That's what you are, isn't it? A berserker. Someone who fights, and fights, and does not die no matter how many injuries they take. Blood-rage, my father called it."

"'m not," Roran started, and the healer shook his head.

"Of course you are. No one fights a Hound and lives, unless he is a magician, an elf, or a berserker. It's not an insult, Cadoc. In fact, in the north I thought it was a compliment. Berserkers are the strongest warriors, after all, the ones villages look up to." Jensen's hazel eyes were sharp—_too sharp, damn him, going to have to watch this one_—and intelligent.

Roran tried not to squirm under his gaze.

"Young Cadoc," Derek said, stopping in front of the healer and his patient. The captain tapped his fist against his hip, his face thoughtful. "What's yer favorite weapon? The hammer, aye?"

"Aye," Roran agreed, making sure to keep his northern twang. "I use a sword too, but h'mmer's are th' best f'r me."

The captain nodded, his eyes shadowed under his bushy eyebrows. "I can use that," he said. "Yer a good fighter, Sloansson, and I've told my men about ye. Once yer healed up good and proper, they'll be training with ye, and ye with them. Is that clear?"

Roran shrugged with his good shoulder and schooled his face into a pleasantly surprised expression. "Sure," he said agreeably. "We gonna fight th' Urgals?"

"Yes. We'll be fighting the Varden come springtime, and as ye know, they run with Urgals. Ye'll get yer chance to kill as many of the horned devils as ye please."

"Good," Roran growled. He figured it was something Cadoc the Hound-killer, the berserker, would do.

Jensen and Derek seemed to approve.

"Oh," said the captain, shading his eyes to look across the blinding snow at the stables. "We found a great big black monster of a horse running loose in the woods. Haven't caught it yet; damn thing seems to want to kill anyone who comes near. Is he yer's, by any chance?"

Roran brightened. _Trumpet's alive! _"Aye," he said eagerly. "Did 'e have a big warcry? Like a trumet?"

"Aye," Derek said, looking at Roran sidelong.

"'e's mine."

"Thought so." The captain's persistent frown twitched into something that might have been a smile. "Why am I not surprised? Berserker warrior, berserker horse. Where'd you find him, by the way? That's an Imperial warhorse if I've ever seen one. Usually the horsemen of the Black Guard ride them."

Roran gave him another one-shouldered shrug, wincing as the movement sent sparks of pain throbbing around the Hound-bite. "Found 'im wanderin' in th' plains," he said. "Few months back. Over th' summer, actu'lly."

"A leftover from the Second Battle of Feinster, then," Derek nodded. "Poor creature must've run when the Varden killed his man. Imperial horses are almost like dogs, ye know. Fiercely loyal things. When he lost his rider, yer horse was wandering alone, without anyone to protect and fight with. Finding a berserker such as yerself must've been the happiest day of the poor animal's life."

_Horses are loyal like that? _Roran thought, surprised. He'd known Trumpet was, well, _different, _than other horses. Other horses didn't bugle like the King was coming, for one thing, and now that he thought about it, Roran remembered how his massive warhorse seemed to follow him _everywhere, _through pain and fire steel, no matter what.

_Good horse, _he thought, and swore to find Trumpet as soon as he was able.

"Where is 'e? Can I get 'im?"

"Soon," Derek said. "No one's hurting him, and we're leaving food out so he doesn't starve in the winter cold. Once he sees ye, he'll come trotting like a colt at feeding time."

Roran relaxed, leaning heavily on Jensen. "Thanks," he mumbled. The world spun, a swirl of red-white, and he sagged, groaning.

"Damn idiots," he heard Jensen mutter, "running around in the cold, just healed him up, wound's going to reopen and he'll _die, _I hope you're happy now Derek."

"'m fine," he slurred, listing.

The captain took his other side, and between him and Jensen, the Varden's wounded general was supported enough that they could stagger back towards the healer's tent.

"I like this one," Derek was saying. For some reason Roran was having a hard time hearing him; words sounded far-off, like they were lost in the denseness of the Spine and he was at the bottom of the waterfalls. "Very brave. He'll do the Red Guard good."

"If you let me _heal him _first," Jensen shot back. "He stays in the tent until he can walk without passing out. This is my new rule."

The captain chuckled, and it sounded like a dragon's growl. "Very well," he said, and then Roran was inside the warm tent again, lying down and staring up at the cottony ceiling. His shoulder ached and he found himself reaching out, fingers curling and uncurling to grasp a sharp, silvery fang.

"Relax," said Jensen, and something cool rested on Roran's feverish forehead. Water trickled soothingly down the side of his face. "You have been through much, little berserker. The worst of your injury is over now. But you have scars; you have been injured before."

Roran didn't try and reply. He didn't trust himself. What if he slipped, and Jensen learned who he was? He couldn't allow that.

"Arrow scars," the healer continued. "Sword scars. Old childhood scars, from a plow, from a scythe. And here…"

Jensen's fingers traced the skin on Roran's good shoulder, where a Ra'zac had once bitten clean through. "And here," he said, "we have skin that was once scarred, but is now whole."

Roran stayed very still and very, very quiet.

"You have met a powerful healer, along the road," Jensen murmured. "One far stronger than I; a true master of magics. Interesting, for one such as yourself, is it not?"

_He knows, _Roran thought, half-panicked. _He knows, he knows I'm not Cadoc Sloansson._

"Interesting," Jensen said again, and let Roran go. "Don't move for a little while," he ordered. "I have other patients to attend to. Do try not to kill yourself before I return, Cadoc, son of Sloan."

And he left the tent, leaving Roran confused and alone.

_What, _he thought, dazed, _the hell was that?_

He was _sure _the healer knew something—his tone had been clever, knowing, almost sly, but…

_He didn't seem to hate me. If he knew, he would've turned me in, right? _

Roran frowned, biting his lip, and wishing his shoulder was healed so he could find Trumpet and get out of the Red Guard's camp. He still needed to find Katrina, and get her safely to the Varden, and lead them to war in the springtime.

_Assuming Lady Nasuada doesn't kill me first. _

At the thought of the Lady of the Varden's fury, he winced. He had been an idiot. He had run off without telling _anyone, _without a plan or men or an authorization. In the Empire, that was _desertion, _and punishable by death. In the Varden, people who deserted weren't hunted down and killed—the Varden didn't have the Empire's resources, after all—but deserting was dishonorable.

_Hell, it's beyond dishonor, _he thought bitterly. _It's spitting in the Varden's face and casting your lot with the Empire. _

And then, quite suddenly, Roran realized exactly just what he had done.

_I abandoned the Varden. _

He left them, without telling them where he was going and why. For all they knew, he had at best been captured by the Empire, and at worst he had joined it.

_I'll be branded a traitor to the Varden, _he thought, and his heart sank. The Varden was _everything _to him—his way out, his cause, his freedom, his _victory _over the Empire that had ripped so much from him and his. Without it he was just another angry, bitter young man displaced by the war. With it he was a righteous soldier, serving his people and their futures.

With the Varden, Roran Stronghammer was a hero.

Without it, he was just a murderer.

He felt sick, and it wasn't just the wound-fever.

_I abandoned them, _he thought, _and they could abandon me, and rightly so. _

_I have to contact them. _

Roran struggled to his feet, ignoring the spinning tent and the fiery stabs of agony in his shoulder. He had to find parchment, some coal, had to find a messenger. He had to get the message back to Nasuada, so she _knew, _so that the Varden didn't abandon him, he _needed them—_

"Lost something, son?" Garrow whispered from the shadows. Strips of flesh hung loosely, bite marks peppered his gray, dead skin, and worms writhed inside his gaping wounds. The dead man noticed his son staring and offering him a gaped, toothless grin. "Awful-looking, isn't it? The Hounds weren't pleased when you escaped."

Roran stared and tried to move his mouth, his fingers curling and uncurling uselessly. He wished he had his hammer, or even the silver fang, anything to protect himself from this wraith—

"No," he hissed hoarsely. "No, you're not real, you're _dead, _leave me alone—"

"That's no way to talk to your father," Garrow said sternly, stepping out of the shadows and into the white light. His face shone, blue and ivory, and his eyes were flat and awful, lurid yellow. "I _raised _you, Roran. You are my blood, my son, my heir. You _will _listen to me."

"You _died,_" Roran snarled, backing into a corner, all thoughts of letter-writing gone. "I buried you. You're dead, and the dead don't talk, so _leave me alone_."

"Doesn't work that way, son," Garrow shifted closer, and ice like the Hound's teeth slid across Roran's skin. "You need me, and I need you. We're just going to have to deal with each other for a little while, it seems."

"What are you," Roran whispered raggedly. "A ghost? A spirit sent to torment me?"

Garrow smiled widely, showing his son his wriggling worm-teeth. "Neither," said the dead man. "I am not a ghost, nor am I an evil spirit."

Roran reeled and images tore through his brain; Garrow his father, holding his hand, laughing, showing him how to sow a field; Garrow dead, face pale, two stones over his eyes and his body covered with half-healed burns; Garrow, blue and ivory in the moonlight, running beside him and whooping and yelling for death; Garrow dead, but _alive, _warm and kind and insistent, telling him _no, _telling him _back, my son, you must go _back—

"You're not my father!" Roran exploded, lunging at the wraith. "My father saved my life, he sent me back so I didn't die. _You are not my father_—"

The grinning specter snarled, leaning out of the way, and simply vanished.

Roran reared back, confused and frightened, still clawing at the empty air where the nightmare had been. _What—?_

"Hey!" Jensen burst back into the tent and saw Roran staggering around, and his eyes narrowed into two bright points of annoyance. "You _idiot, _what did I tell you not five minutes ago—"

Jensen half-tackled Roran, dragging him back to the cot and forcing him onto it. "_Stay,_" he spat, and the bearded, wounded man, too stunned and confused to disobey, stayed.

"You're delirious with fever," the healer said crossly. "I _knew _it wasn't a good idea to have you moving around, I knew it, but no, what the captain wants, the captain gets." Jensen subsided into muttering, clattering and clanging around.

Roran lay still, his eyes wide, his heart struggling to beat.

Jensen clattered back, forced medicine down Roran's throat. "I know you're a stubborn idiot, Roran Stronghammer, but you could at least _listen _to me."

Roran chocked on the medicine, fought back, his eyes wide and startled.

_He knows!_

Jensen sighed. "Yes," he said, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. "I know who you."

"How—" Roran growled, searching frantically for a weapon, any weapon, he had to _defend _himself. His eyes settled on the Hound's silver fang and he reached for it—

"Your name is Roran Stronghammer," said Jensen, blocking his hand. "And I am not your enemy."

* * *

**Yeah, this one... This one, I don't like. **

**Ah well. **

**~WSS**


	18. Chapter Seventeen: The Survivor

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own. **

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"War does not make heroes. War only makes victims, and angry men." -Phil Peterson

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Chapter Seventeen: The Survivor

Night was falling fast and dark as Raltin closed his door and slipped out into the city. Snow blanketed the ground and muffled his footsteps. No one would hear him leave, not that anyone particularly cared. Raltin Morlansson had very few friends in the city. Even his old clanmates had abandoned him in favor of Murtagh, their _leader_, despite all the history they shared.

Raltin's lip curled into a sneer.

Murtagh Morzansson, the one they called Stormbreaker, the _hero _of the Battle of the Falling, was the bane of Raltin's existence.

He hadn't given the man a second glance back in the caves, really. Raltin had been focused on Eragon, because it was Eragon who was the leader, who was trying to convince his clan to leave the safety of their underground home.

Murtagh had just been Eragon's taller, meaner-looking shadow.

Raltin should have known better than to dismiss him as just Eragon's companion. There's always more to a man that what you see, his father had once said. Always look twice.

And Murtagh was certainly more than a silent shadow.

Raltin remembered their conversation in the snow a few days earlier and burned, resentment stirring in his blood. He remembered being held in place, powerless, and the magic and _power_ rushing out of Murtagh, more power that Raltin had seen in a single man since Eragon and Galbatorix.

Raltin remembered seeing the light surrounding the other Rider, and he's been _afraid. _

The fear was what stung his pride the most. He had promised himself, as a little child watching his village burn to ash, that he would never be afraid again, especially not of the monster Morzan.

_And yet his son has me trembling like a babe, _he thought, disgusted.

_Don't be angry. _Talon brushed against his mind and Raltin scanned the dark skies, searching out his dragon's familiar form.

_How can I not be? He has shamed me, and I have shamed the memory of my family. _

Talon pushed affection through their link, and Raltin felt it vaguely.

_Don't be angry, _Talon repeated, and Raltin heard his wings make the air shudder.

Raltin snorted, but he didn't say anything. He closed his eyes, letting the cold bite his skin, and he _remembered_—

_Fire._

Otona had been a small village, smaller even than Carvahall, but its people were good, hard-working, and loyal to the Empire. Their young men grew to be hunters or soldiers and their young women became seamstresses and maids in the houses of nobles. They eked out a simple existence not far from the gates of Uru'baen, as they had for centuries, and for a long time it was enough.

And then, one harvest, there was blight in the crop. Otona lost half its crop that year to the poison, and, without food, half their livestock. Families starved and households withered almost overnight; the village tottered on the edges of death, and when it was time to pay the taxes, the people couldn't.

The King will understand, they said. Otona has always been faithful. Otona has always supported Galbatorix; he will grant us mercy.

A messenger was sent swearing that Otona would give more taxes until the debts were paid. He returned with the news that the great and mighty King was kind, understanding, and graciously accepted their oath.

The village rejoiced.

Raltin's father, Morlan, had been one of the farmers greatly harmed by the blight. Upon hearing the good news, he sent his young son out to his grandmother's home, two miles outside Otona, to share it with her.

Because of this, Raltin and his grandmother survived.

Morlan and the rest of the village did not.

Morzan the Forsworn and his red beast of a dragon fell from the sky like a living, breathing storm of fire and fang. Houses toppled, fields burst into flames, people who ran were cruelly, mercilessly thrown down and torn apart.

Within ten minutes, Morzan razed the entire village of Otona to the ground.

Watching from the hillside where his grandmother lived, Raltin saw his village disappear, and he ran.

Blindly, senselessly, on and on for days until he collapsed, too sick to run anymore. He didn't understand. Galbatorix has promised their safety, promised not to punish them. And Morzan was his faithful dog—he wouldn't have razed the village without his master's say-so.

But Morzan had, and Otona was gone; no one would ever grow food there again, or listen at the storyteller's feet, or run through the streets with a stick of rock sugar that Miss Cook had made.

His home was gone.

Raltin hovered on the edge of death for weeks. He nearly starved to death, and would have, if a coal-gatherer's family hadn't taken him in and nursed him back to something resembling health. He lived with the coal-gatherers for nearly a year, and then he left them, wandering again, eating little, only thinking.

It took nearly three years for Raltin to understand _why _his village had to die, exactly. There _wasn't _a reason. Galbatorix and his dog Morzan were madmen; they did everything they could to hurt and cause fear, simply because _they could. _

After that, Raltin returned to the shell of his village, and found his grandmother weeping among the graves. She was very old and very sick, half-mad, and teetering on the brink of death, and when she saw Raltin, now almost grown, she ran shrieking from him as though he were a demon.

He found her, not an hour later, keeled over in the ashes over her home. The simple fear of seeing him again had killed her, and Raltin never went back to Otona again.

He went into the Spine, more than a little mad himself, and lived on the edges of life and death, until one day, after many years had passed, he fell into the river and almost drowned.

He remembered the water, cold and cruel like swords, tearing the breath from his lungs, and he'd been ready to die.

Instead, he woke in a cave with a yellow dragoness sitting on his chest, and a clan of Dragon Riders staring down at him.

Three months later, he had Talon, and he wasn't alone anymore.

And then Eragon Shadeslayer had stumbled into their midst, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Raltin never wanted to leave the cave. It was safe there—Galbatorix couldn't find them, couldn't take this family away from him, but apparently Eragon could.

After Erik and Vé left with their dragons, Ophelia Kindmother, the clan leader, paced and paced, scrying with all her might, and finally she forced the remainder of her clan to leave, to aid Eragon in the battle against Galbatorix.

_She died because of it, _Raltin thought bitterly, kicking up some snow. _If we had just stayed in the damn cave, none of this would've happened. _

Talon agreed, and landed beside his Rider with a thump. _I wish Eragon had never found us, _he said. _We could've lived underground forever. _

_Or until Galbatorix died, at least. _

The dragon and Rider lapsed into silence and Raltin kept walking, his feet sinking deep into the snow.

_Murtagh would be angry if he knew I was out here, _he thought, and a bitter grin twisted his face. _I wonder if he'd make good on his threat to destroy me—d'you think he could, Talon?_

_In magic? Yes. In physical strength? Probably not. _

Raltin grinned sharply. _Imagine if I challenged him for leadership of the clan, _he said. _No one would mind if I killed him, really—most of the Varden hates him anyway. _

Talon shook his head, head butting Raltin. _The others don't, _he pointed out. _Erik and Sunna and Vé and Konungr, I mean. We might get Lovissa on our side, but that's about it. _

Raltin's smile slid away and his hands curled into fists. _I know. _I _have been their clanmate longer—they should chose _me _over Murtagh. What has he done that's so special, anyway? Fought Galbatorix? He almost _died. _If Eragon hadn't sacrificed himself to save him, he would have. _

The thing was, Raltin could see himself following Eragon easily. He hadn't _disliked _the man, really, even though he'd lost that fight in the caves. Eragon had seemed like a good sort of person, like the people in his village.

But Murtagh was the son of a monster, and Raltin couldn't—wouldn't—forgive him for it.

_Raltin, _Erik called, his voice stern in the indigo Rider's mind. Raltin glowered.

_What?_

_Where are you?_

_Walking, _he said, trying not to sound like a sullen child. _Clearing my head. Thinking over some things. _

Erik's displeasure rippled across to Raltin, and he bit down on an angry outburst.

_Get back here, _the older Rider ordered. _There's something going on—Thorn is back, and he has a Halfling prisoner. _

_A Halfling prisoner? _Raltin asked, intrigued despite himself. _How'd he manage that?_

_We have no idea. Just… get back here. _

_Fine, _Raltin said, and cut the connection. He bristled underneath Erik's tone, but fought down his fury. Erik wasn't his enemy, not really. Erik was clan. He was just deluded, following a man he thought could lead him.

_I'll show him, one day, _Raltin thought darkly, hopping up onto his dragon's broad back. _They'll all see. _

Talon rumbled reassuringly. _We just need to get a little stronger, _he said. _Then we can take on Murtagh and Thorn. _

_We have to challenge them before we march to Uru'baen, _Raltin warned. _We can't risk hurting the Varden's chances of taking down Galbatorix. _

_Of course, _his dragon growled. Talon's wings churned and the pair lifted off, scattering snow and darkness. Somewhere on the horizon, the sun was rising, turning the sky deep, dark gray instead of pitch black. Raltin turned his back on the light and urged his dragon on, back into Belatona.

They soared over the wall easily, causing the guards to look up and frantically scan the skies for any sign of a dragon or a Halfling.

Raltin smirked. He and Talon were nearly impossible to see; Talon's scales were dark and Raltin himself was wearing dark clothes made for sneaking. He could get anywhere, past anyone, and it was this skill of stealth Raltin prided himself on the most.

Below the pair, the city of Belatona was mostly silent. As the grayed dawn light broke over them, the city would awaken, and go about their daily business of preparing for war. But for now all was quiet and still, just as Raltin preferred it. He liked the silence, and the stillness. It was comforting and familiar, like the caves below the earth, where the sounds of the Spine were muffled and distant.

_We're here, _Talon murmured, sailing in a wide arc over the keep's courtyard, where the clan was prone to have meetings. Firelight glimmered in the yard, revealing the massive, glittering bodies of the dragons and their Riders.

Talon landed a good distance away and padded towards the clan, coming to rest beside Deloi, the only dragon that did not seem to be enamored with Murtagh and his red beast.

Deloi raised his muzzle from the ground and nodded to the pair, and his Rider Lovissa did the same.

_You are very nearly late, young one, _Deloi rumbled. His bronze scales sparked in the firelight and his tail twitched tiredly. The older dragon jerked his head towards the center of the dragon-circle. _There is Thorn's prize. _

A Halfling lay unconscious in the ring of dragons, new scars crossing its dirty scales and the stench of blood clung to it.

Thorn rested not far from it, his crimson eyes closed. He was breathing heavily and his wings lay limp on the cold ground. He wasn't scarred, but the scent of dragon-blood clung to him too; he and the Halfling had fought.

Raltin bit back the urge to sneer.

"As you can see," Murtagh began. He was leaning against his dragon, rocking off his bad leg. Raltin was surprised to see Arya the Elf Princess and her young dragon Faolin standing beside him.

He frowned. Last time he checked, Arya was living in the Burned District, overcome with grief at the loss of Eragon.

_I thought she hated Murtagh, _he thought at Talon.

The dragon shrugged. _Me too. Apparently we were wrong. _

Raltin frowned, and decided to watch how she reacted while Murtagh talked.

"As you can see, we now have a Halfling prisoner." The red Rider gestured at the unconscious monster. "Its rider has been killed, and the beast itself hasn't been healed enough to fly away from us. Thorn found it roaming the plains, and fought with it.

"He meant to kill it, but during their fight he caught flashes of Saphira Brightscales." Murtagh paused. "She is alive."

At once the dragons reared to their hindlegs to roar and spit many-colored fires into the air, stamping the ground and howling jubilantly.

_She's alive! _Konungr, Erik's great orange dragon, thundered. He was the largest dragon in the clan and each stomp sent the earth rumbling underneath his weight.

Even Talon reared back to join in their joy, sending his own indigo fires to mix with yellow, bronze, red, and orange.

Saphira was alive, even though her Rider was dead. It _was _a happy, hopeful thought, to think that she was strong enough to live through her other half's death.

But Raltin knew better. Nothing was all happiness and hope. Saphira was in the care of Galbatorix, the Murderer, the Traitor.

"She is alive," Murtagh repeated, once the dragons quieted and dropped back to all fours. "But she's not… _aware_. From what Thorn gleaned from the Halfling, Saphira hasn't spoken or even reacted to anything since Galbatorix brought her back to the city."

Anxious murmurs rippled through dragons and Riders.

_Did Galbatorix do something to her? _Raltin wondered. _Or is she just broken from Eragon's death?_

Murtagh held up a hand. "We will get her back," he said firmly. "Saphira is _ours_. Galbatorix can't have her. He wants to use her to restart the Dragon Riders underneath his power, and we won't let that happen. _We _are the Dragon Riders, not Galbatorix, and not his Halflings."

"Damn straight," Erik snarled, and Konungr roared and stamped in agreement.

"So we're going to get Saphira, then?" Vé spoke up, twirling his dagger between his fingers.

Murtagh sighed, cast Arya a sidelong glance. "_You _are," he said. "All of you, working together."

Raltin frowned. "But not you," he said loudly.

The other Rider bowed his head. "Right," he agreed. "Not me."

Instantly, the Riders exploded into questions.

"You're just going to stay here?" Raltin shouted, outraged. "And let _us _dive headlong into Uru'baen? Into the King's grasp, so we all can be turned into slaves?"

From Deloi's deep, vicious growl, Raltin could tell that he wasn't the only one to feel this way, and the backing gave him the strength to push on.

"You're a coward," he spat. "What're you gonna do, cower here like a hatchling?"

Murtagh's cold eyes flashed fire. "I am _not _a coward," he snarled, and Thorn opened his bright eyes to glare. "Arya and I must go elsewhere."

"Where?" Raltin challenged. "Du Weldenvarden, where you can hide with the rest of the elves?"

Arya stirred, her green eyes hardening. "Says the cave-dweller," she murmured. "What do you know of battle, of sacrifice? Your first battle was the Battle of the Falling, and you did not arrive to fight until the end."

Raltin glared. _I watched my village _die, he almost said, but he held his tongue.

Murtagh and the elf-woman exchanged a glance, and some thoughts, if their eyes were anything to go by.

"We are going east," Murtagh said slowly. "Beyond the desert and the Edda River."

"No," Lovissa said. "There is nothing past the Edda River, except wild lands and death. Why would you go there, when the world needs you here?"

Murtagh shrugged. "You don't really need me here," he said. "I am not nearly that important."

"You're the lead Rider," Erik argued. "We count on you to guide us."

The red Rider smiled, and it was a little bitter. "I am not your _choice _of a lead Rider," he said. "I only lead you because Eragon died."

"We want you," Vé said, frowning. "Have we not made that clear? Why are you so eager to abandon us?"

"You've been very good to me," Murtagh said hastily. "And I care about all of you—"

_Even me? _Raltin thought. _You threatened to kill me. _

"—deeply. That's not why I'm leaving. I'm going to the east with Arya because we think that there might be a chance we can get Eragon back."

Shocked silence filled the courtyard.

"You mustn't tell anyone," Murtagh continued. "In fact, I'm going to need you all to swear that you won't. But we think there's a chance we can bring him back, and we have to take it."

_No one can return from the dead, _Deloi rumbled. _No one. The very laws of magic tell us it is so. We are all taught from hatching that you cannot bring back the dead; you will die trying._

"There's a way," Arya said softly, stepping forward. "An ancient way, taught only by the elves." She locked eyes with Lovissa and with Vé.

"The phoenix feather," Vé whispered. "You have a phoenix feather?"

Arya nodded. "It was given to Eragon at Oromis's burial, and I now have it."

"You know where to go?" Lovissa cut it sharply.

Raltin looked between the three elves, confused and intrigued.

"_He _does." Arya nodded to Murtagh. "The two of us can go, and bring Eragon back."

Silence reigned.

_They're talking about going to the end of the world, _Talon murmured, awed. _To Death himself…_

_What? _Raltin prodded Vé's mind, asking for knowledge, and the other Rider opened up, impressing an old legend—

_The Phoenix was a great, noble creature, and he saw the Death in the world and mourned it. _

_He pitied the creatures of the world, who had done no wrong but suffered for the wars of gods, and he flew through the world shedding his feathers so that those who loved enough could walk to the gates of Death and demand their loved back_.

—into his mind. Raltin blinked, reeled back, and shook his head like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.

_Strange, _he thought, and Talon hummed in his head.

"Do you understand?" Murtagh said. "It's not that I want to leave you to face Galbatorix on your own. It's that I _have _to go get Eragon back. It's my fault he's dead. I carry that responsibility, and as his brother, I owe it to him to at least try and mend what has been broken."

"Do you think you can do it?" Lovissa said. Her face was hard and uncompromising.

Murtagh looked back at her solemnly. "Yes," he swore, in the ancient language. "Yes, I think I can."

The elf-woman, the clan's Elder, bowed her head. "Very well," she said. "By Rider law, you are allowed to go. Will you return by spring?"

_Three months, _Raltin thought. _She's giving him three months to do this. _

"Yes," Murtagh said. "On dragonback it shouldn't take us more than a month to get there. The way is littered with prey, water, and food. We'll be fine."

Lovissa bowed, an Elder to the leader of the Dragon Riders. "Then you have the clan's blessing," she said firmly, eyeing the others, daring them to dissent. "And you give us a task in your absence?"

Murtagh blinked, relief washing over his face, and Raltin observed. "Yes," the red Rider said. "Your task is to try and free Saphira from Galbatorix's clutches, using any means possible, aside from getting yourselves captured."

"We accept," Erik rumbled, and the dragons snarled in agreement.

Murtagh nodded.

_At least he's leaving, _Raltin thought, giddy. _Now I have a chance… _

"And Raltin," Murtagh said, bite entering his voice.

Raltin looked up, meeting Morzan's son's icy blue eyes. "Yes?"

"I want you to come with us."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! More tomorrow, hopefully!**

**~WSS**


	19. Chapter Eighteen: The Outcast

**Woo, gotta keep on truckin'. **

**Thank you, all who reviewed!**

**Arya Shadeslayer, you're awesome. **

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own.**

* * *

"And the wolf that keep it may prosper,/But the wolf that shall break it may die./As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk,/The law runneth forward and back -/And the strength of the pack is the wolf/And the strength of the wolf is the pack." -Rudyard Kipling, _Now this is the law of the jungle_

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: The Outcast

Arya looked between Murtagh and Raltin, stroking Faolin's scales thoughtfully.

_Interesting, _she said. _I thought Murtagh disliked him?_

Her dragon made a noncommittal sound, his tail twitching. He watched the clan meeting with great interest, head canted to the side, eyes thoughtful.

_He likes this, _she realized, with a jolt of guilt. _He likes being a part of a clan. _

Bitterly, she turned her thoughts to the matter at hand. _And now we can belong to no one else; we have to be Dragon Riders, or stand alone. _

"You _what?_" The Rider Raltin sputtered. His eyes were wide and surprised; he certainly wasn't expecting Murtagh's demand.

"I want you to travel with us," Murtagh said evenly. His face betrayed nothing, and his mind was closed to Arya, even though moments before it had been open, or at least receptive.

"Why?" Raltin's eyes narrowed into angry, cruel slits, and his hands balled into fists. His dragon, so dark blue he was almost black, bared his snowy teeth.

Murtagh shrugged. "You are a fighter," he said, "and the most inexperienced of the clan. It will be good for you to gain some experience in the world. Besides, Arya and I are going to be focused on one thing, and one thing only. We, therefore, will probably be blind to other dangers."

Arya glared at Murtagh, and he offered her an apologetic shrug.

"This way, we can still be focused on getting where we need to go, and be safe while doing it."

Raltin's lip curled into a sneer. "You would trust _me, _son of Morzan, to watch your back?"

Something unspoken and ugly passed between Raltin and Murtagh, and it made Arya frown. She prodded the edges of Murtagh's mind warily, but it was like trying to pry open steel. He would not yield, and she knew that no one except for Galbatorix could rip his mind open.

"I trust you to do what you must, for the health and safety of your clan," Murtagh retorted. His voice and face were calm, betraying nothing, but his hands trembled slightly.

_Interesting. _

She could still barely believe that Murtagh had agreed to go with her to the east. She knew he cared for Eragon but this… this went beyond what she thought of him. The Murtagh she had known had been loyal to Eragon, yes, but he had also been a man of secrets, and violence.

It was almost as if the lightning had burned those secrets out of him. He wasn't a mysterious, half-silent shadow anymore, he was a man with convictions, and feelings, and a sense of debt towards the one who had saved his life.

_He's almost like Eragon, _an old voice whispered in the back of her mind.

Arya shook that voice away, and refocused her attentions on the clan meeting.

Raltin glared at Murtagh, his jaw working furiously, and then he broke eye contact and looked away. "Fine," he said, through gritted teeth.

Murtagh nodded, satisfied. "Good," he said. "I'm glad you are willing to see this my way."

Raltin did not reply.

"When are you leaving?" Lovissa asked. Arya watched her, fascinated. Lovissa was still _elf, _undeniably so, even after spending a century underground with humans and dragons for company. She still carried herself like an elf, still behaved like one, all dignity, poise, and clever knowledge, and Arya _missed _that already.

She would never walk among elves like that again. She would never walk through Ellesméra, her _home_, through the forest of Du Weldenvarden. The trees would never sing to her again; the animals would flee from her touch. She could never enter the Library, or Rhunon's shop. She couldn't spar with her people again, unless directly challenged, and who would challenge an Outcast?

_No one, _she thought, and her heart ached. Faolin nuzzled her hand gently, his eyes wide and liquid.

_It's alright, _he tried to comfort her. _You have the Riders, still. You have the Varden. You have me. _

She smiled a little at him. _Thank you, little one. _

His words, however kind and loving, did very little to soothe the hurt in her chest.

She was _elf, _to her bones. She loved her people. She defied her own mother to serve them, twenty years ago, to carry Saphira's egg so that the world might mend and her people might be safe.

_Everything I have done, _she thought, and anger sparked in her despair. _Everything I have done has been for my people. I _love _my people. I would fight and kill and die for them. I defied you, _Mother, _to protect them. Can't you understand that?_

She loved the elves, and she would protect them the best way she knew how, through Eragon. Couldn't her mother see that? Why was Islanzadí so blind, to refuse her own _child _over something as inconsequential as a journey?

_The east is dangerous, _her mother's voice whispered. _It is the death of elves. You must not go. You will die. _

_Will it hurt, _Arya wondered. _To be struck from the Book of the People? _She wondered if she would feel it, deep in her chest, her soul, when her name was crossed out. She would be considered dead to the elves, then. There would be no Arya Drottningu, Princess of Elves. There would be Arya the Dragon Rider, of course, the Outcast, the Unfavored, but the Princess?

_The Princess is dead. _

It hurt. It was like dying, or having a loved one die, a hole punched deep through her chest and left to rot.

And her own _mother_ struck the blow, casting her daughter from her heart and people like one cuts away the dead flesh around a wound.

It hurt.

_Arya, _Faolin murmured.

_It's alright, _she lied to him. _I did what I must. I am protecting my people, even though they will never accept me as one of them again. I am doing what's _right.

For no matter what Arya did, no matter if she brought Eragon back or fell to her knees at Islanzadí's feet, she would never be elf again. Once her name was struck from the Book of the People, it was _struck_. It could never be reentered, or cleared away.

Her name, for now and always, would always be crossed out, and she was dead to the elves.

_But I am _alive _to the Dragon Riders, _she thought fiercely. _I am _alive _to them, and to Murtagh. And he will accept me and follow me anywhere, if it means he can mend what he has broken. _

"We will leave in three days," Murtagh said to Lovissa, drawing Arya out of her thoughts. "Five, at most. We must speak with some people, and prepare, and then we will go."

Namely, Griffin and Lore, the Gray Folk, Lady Nasuada, and Rhunon.

Lovissa dipped her head. "We will plan in that time," she said. "Will you hear some plans, before you go?"

"Of course," Murtagh assured her immediately. "And you can speak to me at any time during my journey, through mirrors or water. I'll take a small mirror, and we'll usually have water around us."

The dignified elf-woman nodded. "We will contact you," she said. "Perhaps twice a week at dusk?"

The red Rider nodded.

"Good."

Murtagh bowed to her slightly, and to the rest of the clan. "Get some rest," he said. "The Halfling won't wake for hours yet. We can start interrogating it then, and planning can wait until the sun is up."

The rest of the clan nodded, agreeing with him, and all the Riders bowed to Murtagh. All the dragons nodded to Thorn.

"May the sun look over you," Murtagh said to his clan.

"And may you go with light at your back," the rest of the clan (_except Raltin, _Arya noted) intoned.

The gathering began to separate, dragons and Riders turning to their own business and moving towards their own sleeping-places.

Murtagh leaned heavily on his dragon and blinked wearily at Arya. "Would you speak to Rhunon?" he asked.

She frowned. _This could be a problem. _"Why?"

The red Rider's face twisted into a bitter smirk. "She and I have had… words in the past. If I see her just now, I might try to kill her."

Arya's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

Murtagh waved a dismissive hand. "Long story," he muttered. "Rather not talk about it."

_I don't know if Rhunon will allow me to speak with her, _Arya wanted to tell him. _I have been cast out; I am no longer an elf, with elf rights. Rhunon, on the other hand, is well within hers to refuse to even speak to me. _

"I will speak with Rhunon," she said instead. She didn't want Murtagh to know what she had done, and what her mother had done in return. It seemed _wrong, _somehow, like telling a warrior of a tree-singer's powers, and the tree-singer of the warrior's.

Murtagh blinked, relieved. "Very well. I will speak to Nasuada in the morning, and we can speak to the Gray Ones together."

"Yes," Arya said.

The red Rider offered her a slight bow, his mouth cut into a lopsided smile. "May the light go at your back," he said, climbing onto his dragon.

"May the light go at your back." The unfamiliar phrase felt odd on her tongue, heavy, but she couldn't use the elf wishes any more; the Rider's benediction was all she had.

Murtagh nodded, and said _chains _in the ancient language. At once the ground writhed, earth springing up and clamping down on the Halfling's prone body, pinning its feet, tail, wings, and jaws to the ground.

And then Thorn spread his wings, vaulted into the air, and was gone.

_I still can't believe he agreed, _she told Faolin, walking with him back towards the Burned District. _I was sure he would tell me to leave him alone, after the way I've treated him. _

_He's a good person, _Faolin said. _He was nice to me, and he cares about Thorn and his clan. _

_I know. _

Maybe she'd always known. Murtagh was Eragon's half-brother, after all. They shared the same mother, the same Carvahall blood that flowed through Eragon and Roran. And Carvahall was forest-land, near enough to the great Du Weldenvarden and the Spine to be touched by the land-magic.

And forest-land was the land of great trees, rising through wind and ice and howling flames to shelter the animals, villages, and smaller plants that lived in their shadows. Those of forest-land were kind, and strong, and used to spreading their branches so the small and weak could live beneath them.

Those of forest-blood were good, usually, and Murtagh was half-forest. His blood was tainted with Morzan's fire-plains, of course. He was wild and hot and fierce and _dark, _if he chose to be.

But he was of the same blood as Eragon.

_Besides, _Arya thought, _you can't judge a person based on their parentage. I am proof of that. If I was my mother, I'd be a cold, calculating Queen by now, not an Outcast. And if Murtagh was his father, he'd be at Galbatorix's side willingly. _

Faolin nosed her hand affectionately. _See? _he said. _You're learning. _

She looked into his eyes, scratching the scales between them. _You are very wise, little dragon, _she told him. _Aren't you?_

Faolin gave her a wide dragon-grin, his tail lashing up snow. _Sometimes, _he said teasingly, nipping her fingers and bounding away, diving through the snow with a jubilant roar.

Arya couldn't help but laugh, watching her young dragon tumble and race around as young dragons _should. _

_He's trying to cheer me up, _she realized. _And it's working. _

Yes, she still hurt, _deeply, _over what her mother had done to her. Her mother had _betrayed _her, in the deepest sense of the word, and that wound would probably never heal.

But she didn't need the elves. She loved the elves, of course. She would do whatever she needed to do to protect them, even though they had rejected her. But she didn't _need _them. She had Faolin fighting for her, and now Murtagh, and later all of his clan.

_And Eragon, _she thought to her herself. _Soon I will have Eragon._

With determination in her step, she moved through the quiet streets of Belatona. Dawn was breaking over the city, gray-tinged pink, and she let the growing light guide her towards the house near the edges of town where Rhunon the swordsmith stayed whenever she was in town.

Arya raised her hand, and knocked.

There was a pause, and then the door creaked open, and Rhunon stood withered and sour-faced on the other side. She gave Arya a _look, _huffed a breath, and leaned on the doorframe.

"What," said Rhunon, "have you done this time?"

Arya fought the urge to look down like a disobedient child. "I need to speak with you," she said.

"Oh?" The ancient elf crossed her arms. "You've been exiled, young one. Your name, if it hasn't already, will be struck from the Book of the People. I have the right—hellfire, I have the _duty_—to treat you as if you are dead."

"No," Arya argued. "You have the duty to treat _Arya Drottningu, _the Princess of the Elves, as if she is dead. Arya Shadeslayer the Dragon Rider is _not _in the Book of the People, and you've always dealt with the Dragon Riders."

Rhunon's old eyes sparkled with sly mirth. "Very good, young one," she said, stepping to the side. "Come in, come in. All the warm's escaping."

Relieved, Arya and Faolin stepped into her house, enjoying the warmth that crackled from the smith's fire.

"So Islanzadí has informed everyone, then?"

Rhunon shrugged. "She's told me and the generals, at least, and the high-level spellcasters. I doubt she's told the normal fighters, but soon all will know."

"I am Outcast," Arya said, and she struggled against the pain of even saying the word.

"Yes," the ancient one. "Your mother said you're journeying east?"

Arya nodded, and got an idea. "You have been alive since the Dragon War," she said.

Rhunon's face darkened, and she nodded.

"Did you know of an elf called Caspar?"

Rhunon didn't answer at first, instead studying Arya with sharp, old eyes. "Yes," she said, after a time. "I knew Caspar. And I was there when he returned to us, broken in mind and body. And you wish to follow in his footsteps, to go so far east part of you can never return?"

The green Rider closed her eyes briefly, and nodded again. Faolin hummed, rubbing against her leg.

Rhunon snorted. "Caspar was a good elf," she said. "One of the greatest. He fought for us _hard _in the War, even after he lost nearly his whole family. We all respected him, and some were with him, when he fought Eragon the First's teachings of peace.

"And then he left. He just _vanished _one day, without telling his mate and children and followers anything. We thought he had gone off to commit suicide, because he could not handle the bond between elf and dragon. His name, too, was struck from the Book."

Arya started. Her mother had not mentioned that.

Rhunon nodded. "Oh, yes. We thought him dead, you see, so we struck his name and mourned him, and then promptly went on with our lives. Imagine our surprise, then, when Caspar returned years later. He was so broken, Ayra, we did not recognize him until he spoke. He was terribly thin, more skeleton than actual flesh, and he was so pale we could see the blood move underneath his skin. He was scarred and weathered, and he looked as if he might die at any moment.

"And his mind was broken also. He spoke of things that could not exist, and of things that had existed long ago, that no elf was ever meant to know or believe."

"Dragon's myths," Arya murmured. Faolin was still underneath her fingers.

The ancient elf shook her head. "Dragon's gods," she corrected. "It's interesting, really; if you look at dwarf legends, and human myths, and then compare them to the dragon's tales, you'll find many of the same stories, retold and refashioned.

"But elves, long before our bond with dragons, before even I was born, had given up our gods. We thought ourselves above silly stories. And Caspar returned to us with those silly stories, ones that our dragon companions believed. It caused quite a stir, you see."

"So the elves rejected him," Arya said, turning away. "They cast him and his tales out, and waited for him to die."

Rhunon bowed her head. "Yes," she said. "We abandoned him, waited for his death with baited breath, and then we buried knowledge of him, because we were ashamed."

_Will they bury knowledge of me? _Arya thought. _Will they hide me and wait for me to die so they can suppress what I've done and call me insane?_

Rhunon sighed. "Caspar left us again," she said. "He wandered into the east and never returned. Perhaps he died there, or returned to his Forest and let the Mother sing him to sleep. We will never know."

"No," Arya said. "I suppose we won't."

"Islanzadí loved you," the smith murmured. "She loved you deeply, more than you will know."

"She exiled me, because I will shame her _precious _people." Arya couldn't quite shake the fury and pain out of her throat, and Faolin murmured sadly.

Rhunon looked Arya in the eye. "You will understand, one day," she said. "Now, what did you want from me?"

Arya shrugged. "To speak with you," she said. "To see if one of my people would still deign to speak with an Outcast."

Rhunon's face softened. "Oh, little child," she said. "You are an _idiot._"

The Rider drew back, hurt.

"I have been with you since your birth," Rhunon said frimly. "I have allowed you to run amok in my forge, to tamper with my work, to drag me from my solitude back into the world. And I have been alive far longer than your mother, and four other rulers before her." She snorted. "I am from a time when we did _not _exile those who thought differently. And I will _hold _to those ancient traditions, your mother be damned."

Arya smiled. "Thank you," she said. Warmth seemed to seep into her chest, filling in some of what her mother had torn out.

Rhunon waved it away gruffly. "Now," she said, snapping her fingers impatiently. "I'm going to put on some tea, and we must discuss your plans."

Arya nodded and took a seat. Faolin hummed, pleased, and rested his head on her knee.

_I am not alone, _Arya thought. _I am not as Outcast as I once thought. _

And some of her pain lessened.

* * *

**A note on Caspar: "Caspar" is thought to be the name of one of the three Magi (_or wise men_) of Christian lore, who came _from the east _to deliever gifts and knowledge to the baby/very young Jesus Christ. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	20. Chapter Nineteen: The Dreamer

**Many thanks to all you reviewers and Arya Shadeslayer! You are all fantastic! **

**Disclaimer: Do not own.**

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"All men of action are dreamers." -James Huneker

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Chapter Nineteen: The Dreamer

_This, _thought Murtagh, _is going to be awful. _

He waited outside Lady Nasuada's chambers, leaning on Zar'roc, and he felt like he was going to be ill. Which was ridiculous, really, when he thought about it, because he was a seasoned war veteran; he had seen some of the most disgusting things imaginable, and they hadn't made him feel sick.

_Grow up, _he chided himself. Thorn chuffed a laugh inside his head.

_Sleep, you big idiot, _he told his dragon.

_Alright, _Thorn said tiredly. _Wake me if you need me. _

_Of course._

Murtagh took a deep breath, swallowed, and nodded to the Nighthawk guards before stepping forward and rapping sharply on Nasuada's door.

"Enter," she called, and he did.

She sat at her desk, maps and papers spread below her fingers, and her bed was still made up. She hadn't even attempted sleep, then.

Nasuada looked up when he entered and smiled tiredly, beckoning for him to sit opposite her.

"What brings you here?" she asked. "I hear Thorn has returned?"

"With a captive Halfling," Murtagh said. He settled into the chair, grateful for the relief, and studied her face.

She looked exhausted. Sleeplessness bagged under her eyes and clung to her shoulders, and she was ashen. Her eyes were bloodshot, strained from reading and writing report after report, order after order.

She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"Can we use this creature?" She put down the map of the western Empire she had been studying and focused entirely on him.

"I believe so. It has a wealth of information and its mind isn't defended like a dragon's is. I don't think Galbatorix thought they could be captured."

"And what information does it have?"

Murtagh shrugged. "Information on troops. On the size of the aerial forces. On Uru'baen. On Saphira."

"Saphira?" Nasuada leaned back in her chair, her eyes thoughtful. "She's alive?"

"Yes," the lead Rider said. "Alive. Broken, and held captive, but she's _alive._"

The Lady of the Varden closed her eyes. "Fantastic," she murmured. "Saphira is _alive_."

"I have tasked the Riders with freeing her before the spring," he said.

And of course Nasuada, as used to political maneuvering within the Council as she was, caught his meaning immediately.

"Where will you be?"

Murtagh met her eyes, and held them. "Arya Shadeslayer and I, as well as Raltin Morlansson, are going east."

Nasuada frowned. "East?"

"Beyond the Edda River," Murtagh explained. "Far beyond it, and the charted borders of Alagaesia."

"No," the Varden's Lady said. "Why would you do that? There's nothing there."

"Yes," the Rider countered. "Yes there is."

Nasuada shook her head, anger and distress entering her face. "Ask the dwarves," she snapped, "there's nothing out there but death."

"The dwarves want to kill me," Murtagh pointed out. "And there _is _something out there, and it _is _Death."

Nasuada drew back, confused.

"I've been dreaming it since the Battle of the Falling," Murtagh said quietly. "And Arya has been scrying it."

"What's out there, then?" she said, and her voice was bitter.

"Death."

"Yes, I said that, that's why you _shouldn't _go—"

"No," Murtagh said empathetically. "_Death_ is out there."

She stopped short, searching his face, frowning. "Death? As in Angvard, the Gray Man, He Who Sleeps Beneath the Hills?"

"He Who Sleeps Beneath the Hills?"

She waved her hand. "The nomad name for Death," she said. "The god of Death. Is that what you're chasing?"

Murtagh nodded. "Yes. Arya believes she has found a way to bring Eragon back from the dead," he said, and he hastily filled her in.

After he was done, she buried her head in her hands and scrubbed at her eyes, clearly exhausted. "Your family will be the death of me," she muttered. "Roran's still in the care of the Empire, you want to go prancing off into the unknown, Eragon's _dead_—"

He sat still and waited for her mutterings to subside. He did feel sort of _bad, _really, for putting her through so much grief. But he had to go east. He _had _to, and she had to see that.

"I do not want you to go," she told him. "It's not only dangerous for you to take this journey, it's dangerous for the _Varden. _What happens when Galbatorix scries us and sees that you have gone? Your Riders will be without their most experienced fighter. What if he decides to mount an assault?"

Murtagh shook his head. "He won't," he assured her. "I know him, and he won't attack during the winter. The armies would revolt. The best he can do is send Halflings to harass us, and the Riders are more than capable of dealing with them."

"What if he decides to come himself?" Nasuada argued. "He came to the Battle of the Falling. He's left the Black Throne; who's to say he won't leave it again, when he sees you are gone?"

Murtagh frowned, considering. "I don't believe he'll risk it," he said. "The King is proud, and vain. He'll want to _destroy _me, in person, and if I'm not here…" he shrugged. "Besides, he won't want to risk riots in the city."

"Uru'baen riots?"

"Nearly every winter," Murtagh said. "The Lower City is poor, extremely so, and nearly every winter there's a shortage of grain, or meat, or oil. They don't have enough to survive, so they band together and march on the Upper City, taking what they can from the others. It takes the whole army plus mages and sometimes the King himself to stop them and get them back in the Lower City."

"Exactly how large is Uru'baen?"

Murtagh blinked, surprised. "Huge," he told her. "Three times the size of Teirm, easily, and probably double Dras Leona."

She blanched. "That's enormous," she breathed. "How can we ever take it?"

"The citizens will rise up with you," he promised. "The ones in the Lower City, anyway, and maybe some Middlings too. They hate the King as much as we do, they just can't escape to prove it.

"And if we shatter their armies at Dras Leona, the King will have to enforce a draft," Nasuada said thoughtfully. "And those drafted tend to run, when faced with a furious, unbreakable force. You said lack of supplies causes riots?"

The Rider nodded.

Something wicked and sharp slid into Nasuada's face. "We attack their supply lines," she said. "Dras Leona is nearly their only supplier now; the north, south, and coast have been shut off to Uru'baen. If we attack the supply lines, we can cause riots, which keeps the King half-occupied in his home."

Murtagh looked away. Her plan was valid. More than valid, really, because it would force Galbatorix and the home guards to spend their time keeping the peace in the city, and not out in the world. But Murtagh had lived through a few Lower City winters. He wouldn't wish the starvation on _anyone. _

_But it must be done, _he thought. _We have to do it to break the back of the Empire. _

Nasuada sighed. "Do you and Arya really think you have a chance of bringing Eragon back?"

He looked her in the eye. "Yes," he said. "Between the two of us, we can."

She nodded. "Very well. I do not want you to leave, but I think we can manage. You have my blessing."

Relief sagged his shoulders.

"But," she said warningly. "Don't _die_, understand? We can't lose you forever. I'll tell the Varden that you've gone north, to Du Weldenvarden and Vroengard. Since you're with Arya, they'll believe me. Galbatorix might even divert some Halflings, to check out what you're doing."

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

She smiled at him. "You are a good person. I trust you to do this." She reached forward, brushed his hand with her fingertips.

He shuddered, and didn't look away.

"Come back to us," she said. "Alive, and with Eragon, if you can. You say your clan is going to free Saphira?"

"If they can," Murtagh murmured. "With rioting in the Lower City, it'll be easier for them to get in and out."

"Good," Nasuada said, and she didn't pull her hand away. Heat tingled in Murtagh's palm, almost like he was touching a dragon hatchling again. "May the gods go with you, Murtagh Stormbreaker."

He bowed his head. "And with you, Lady Nightstalker."

She smiled. "Bring him back," she said, and pulled her hand away.

Murtagh stood, clenching and unclenching his hand, and he offered her a lopsided grin and a bow. "We'll return before spring," he promised. "Do try not to win the war before we get back."

Lady Nasuada stood also, offering him a sly, knowing smirk. "No promises, Dragon Rider."

He chuckled, and together they walked to her door. He liked the feel of her walking beside him, fingertips brushing his, shoulders rubbing.

This close he could smell her, spiced tea, perfume, and sweat.

She stopped at the door, and she was beautiful, and his chest ached.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

He closed his eyes. "Goodbye."

When she kissed him, it was softly, on the corner of his mouth, and he leaned into the heat and sighed. Her hands tangled with his free one, pulling him closer, and her forehead bumped his nose lightly, and he _wanted—_

Nasuada pulled away, her fingers slipping through his like water.

"Come back," she ordered him. "You have to come back this time."

He smiled crookedly. "I will," he swore, in the ancient language, even though she didn't speak it or know what he was saying. "I will come back."

And he stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and limped down the stairs, trying to pretend that his heart wasn't skittering inside his chest.

_I don't want to leave, _he thought. He'd agreed to go with Arya because he could _fix _everything. If he could bring Eragon back, everything would be okay again, because then Eragon would lead the clan, Eragon would be the Varden's hero, Eragon would slay Galbatorix and right the broken world.

But he didn't want to leave.

_I must, _he ordered himself. _I have to. It's my duty, as a Dragon Rider and his brother. _

And he would go. In a few days, he and Arya would lift up and start their long journey east, and leave the Varden behind.

He wasn't sure he wanted to do that.

But the call, deep in his bones, pulling him, always pulling, whispered and hummed and sang, and he _would _go, if he had to.

And it looked like he had to. Arya had a map, but it wasn't clear enough. She could die, easily, without someone to guide her. And he knew the way. He had dreamed the safest path, and it was his duty to guide her, since he could.

Sometimes, though, he really hated duty.

_And what of Nasuada? _He thought. _It is her duty to protect the Varden. What will she do, to defend her people? She's agreed to let us go, but will she accept us when we return? Will she accept _me?

Murtagh shook his head vigorously, clearing it of these troublesome thoughts. He didn't have time for them. In three days he and Arya were leaving, and he had to sleep, and prepare.

A quick mental check revealed that Thorn was sleeping around his house, deeply and heavily.

_Good, _Murtagh thought. _That will give the magic time to set in. _

He limped out of the keep and across the courtyard. Erik and Konungr were resting near the Halfling, keeping one wild eye trained on the beast at all times. The creature itself was still unconscious, and bound to the ground by stone chains.

"How ya doing?" Erik rumbled, standing and striding over to Murtagh.

The red Rider dipped his head. "As well as can be expected, I suppose," he said. He tried to smile. "Keeping an eye on the Halfling?"

The Kuastan man snorted. "Of course. Can't trust the damn thing, and I figure it's better knocked out, for now." He tapped his massive sword.

Murtagh nodded. "Good plan," he said, and clapped the older man on the shoulder. "I'm going to try and sleep. Would you hold down the fort?"

Erik grinned. "Sure," he said. "Have a nice rest, Stormbreaker."

Murtagh bowed slightly and limped past, heading towards his home.

_He's a good man, _he thought, and warmth pooled in his stomach. He loved his clan, he really did. They were good people, and he knew that they'd be just fine in his absence.

Thorn rested against the side of his house, snoring deeply, and Murtagh smiled a bit as he passed. He paused to scratch behind Thorn's ear, enjoying the way his tail twitched, and continued his way inside.

He didn't pause to shed his clothes. He'd clean up later, but he was so _tired, _all he wanted to do was _sleep_—

He burrowed deeper into the straw mattress, and within moments, he was gone.

_The grass was cool beneath his feet. The hills had faded behind him; this earth was flat and unbroken, stretching on and on towards the golden light. At the very edges of his vision he could see trees, greater and taller than any tree back home, even in Du Weldenvarden. _

_These trees were far away, but he could see even from here that they were rich, deep yellow-gold, and they waved gently in a wind he couldn't feel. _

_He needed to get there. _

That _was where the call was leading him, he was sure of it. _

_The land began to narrow, a wide, endless expanse getting smaller and smaller, until he was walking on an overhang that hung over the very edges' of the world. All at once, the sky was gone, sunlight shut out, and the heavens above him were dark and heaving with light and color. _

_Ribbons of red-green-yellow-blue-white streamed above him, dancing, always dancing, and he saw two dragons in the sky, one deep, blacker-than-black, one bright, pure, new-snow white. These two dragons snarled, and roared, and crashed and tore at each other, and the moving lights wove around them, entangling them as they fought. _

_The forest grew nearer, blinding with golden light, and the tree-roots hung over the sides, spilling into the swirling color-dark that was the universe. _

_The traveler stared, awed, and his bones quaked. _

_The massive trees, half in the world, half in the heaving, shuddering universe, groaned in a gentle wind, and he felt it now, rushing on his face. _

_He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, this vision was gone. _

_There was sky again, and sunlight, and the golden forest, and he couldn't feel the breeze. The earth stretched on, endless, and didn't hang over the sides of the universe, waiting to drop. _

_The traveler blinked, frightened, and almost stopped, but the tug in his chest kept pulling, and he staggered forward. _

_Water suddenly soaked his feet, and a river flowed through him, colder than anything he had ever felt before, and he cried out. The river rushed behind him, spilling out, feeding all the rivers of the world, and leading into the golden forest. _

_He gingerly stepped out of the cold silver water and walked under the shadow of the trees, and the golden light was _blinding…

* * *

**Sorry about the acid-trippiness of that. **

**~WSS**


	21. Chapter Twenty: Names

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

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"When you name something, you give it the greatest power of all; the power of existence." -Unknown

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Chapter Twenty: Names

"This way," Guide said, and the man nodded, following him obediently.

Guide led him away from the river, where the light was dim and washed out. The man frowned, trying to see in the formless, blank mass, and Guide smiled and whispered _fire _in a language the man knew, but did not know at the same time.

Firelight lit his palm, Guide forged the way ahead, bathing everything in sickly green light. But to the man, who had forgotten what _green _was, the light was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"How did you do that?" He breathed, awed.

Guide looked at him askance. "You will remember," he said simply, "in time."

The man snorted but subsided. He had to trust Guide, because Guide knew the way. Guide was an elf, and elves were friends. The man knew these things because, as soon as he had realized them, he dropped them into Guide's flask so they would say and the river wouldn't take them.

_So, _thought the man, following his friend. _I know five things. First, I am dead. Second, if I stop moving, I will fall asleep and never wake up. Third, this being's name is Guide. He is an elf. Elves are friends, and therefore Guide is my friend. _

It wasn't much, but the man figured it was better than nothing, and he wanted to get out of the Gray Lands.

Guide said that it was important that he do so. And so far, the elf hadn't lied. So the man was going to trust Guide, because Guide had light and color in his hand, and it was so _familiar _the man could taste it, like _lightningheatlove _of his tongue—

(_he knew lightning, and heat, and love. he knew flying across the sky, heat in his bones, love in his mouth, lightning _slamming_ into his chest_—)

"In the flask, young one," Guide said.

The man frowned. "How did you know? That I was remembering something, I mean?"

"It is in your eyes," Guide informed him gently. "Go on. Before you lose it."

Dutifully, the man gathered the memory of _loveheatlightning _and dropped it, shimmering, into the flask. It mingled with the other bits of knowledge he had collected.

_I know six things, _the man thought. _Good. _

"What's my name?" He asked Guide again. He felt like that was the most important. Once he knew his _name, _he could leave, he could go where he was needed again.

Guide smiled sadly. "I cannot tell you, young one," he said. "I am forbidden."

"By who?"

"The Lord of these lands," Guide said, casting a wary glance at the dark, sunless sky and the silvery glow that marked the twisting, flowing river.

The man's frown deepened.

"In your life, you might have called him Death," Guide continued. "Or Angvard, or the Gray Man who Rides a Gray Horse."

The man took in Guide's words, stirred them around in his blank, empty head. _Angvard. _That struck a spark—he'd heard men in armor call out to Angvard before. He remembered a thick stench (_blood_) and screaming.

_War. _

He put it in the flask.

Death rattled _something _inside him, deep down, in the what had once been a thing of fire's home. He didn't know what it was, exactly, but he _knew, _and it _hurt—_

_Brother, _whispered a long-forgotten voice, and the man shuddered.

"I just want to know my name," he said to Guide.

Guide bowed his head. "I cannot tell you your name. It is forbidden by Death himself. But I shall call you Traveler, for that is what you are. Do you find it acceptable."

_Traveler, _the man thought, rolling it around in his emptiness. It rolled within him smoothly, didn't jar anything loose, and the man nodded.

"Traveler," he said. "I like it."

"Good," said Guide, and he spread his firelit palm. "Come, Traveler. We have far to go."

Traveler nodded, happy with his new name, and he was sure to put the burst of _happiness, _of _not alone anymore, I am _somebody _again_ into the flask.

He would not forget again. He wouldn't. The river would not take it from him.

Guide smiled. They were walking through the gray forest now, leaving the river behind them. As they went in the silver light faded and faded, and Guide's werelight became the only source of light anywhere.

Traveler looked around him. He'd never been this far from the river, before. There hadn't seemed a point. All around him were great gray trees, massive, far older than he could even imagine, and their roots were gnarled and tangled deep into the bitter earth.

Around the trees were those who had fallen asleep, their eyes closed, their faces carved wooden and stony.

The Traveler felt a stab of pity for them; they had no purpose, so they slept.

_Must keep moving, _he thought. _Or I will sleep, and Guide says I won't wake up again. _

He didn't want that. He wanted to _be _somebody, and to get out of the Gray Lands. Guide said there was more to Death than this gray, stone-turning existence, and so far Guide hadn't lied.

"Tell me about the lands beyond this one," Traveler said. He watched the werelight, and loved the way it turned dull gray emerald green or deep jade.

Guide smiled. "There are many lands beyond the Gray," he began. "As many lands as there are in the realms of the living, and more. There is the Blood Land, where those who crave battle's glory go to fight, and eat, and fight again the next day. Then there is the Water Land, for those who loved the rivers and the sea. There we have fish to hunt, ships to sail, and eternity to do so. Beyond that land there is my own resting place, Forest Land."

Something familiar stirred in Traveler's chest. "Forest Land," he said, trying it out.

"Yes. It is the land for my people, who were raised on forest-magic and who loved the trees and the creatures in it. It's autumn, in some parts, spring in others, winter and summer in others still. We have homes there that are carved from trees—"

(_the city called Ellesméra_)

"—and we live with the animals."

"It sounds beautiful," Traveler said. "Do you think I could stay there?"

"No," Guide murmured gently. "The Forest is not for you."

"Oh." Traveler tried to hide the hurt in his voice. _I'm in pain. Why? _

"Do not be sad, young one. There are other lands, other places for you to go, when it is time."

"Tell me about them."

"Beyond Forest is the Land of Fire," Guide continued. "It is for those who are Fire's children, and wish to be in passion always. The Sky Land, for those who love the air and its freedom, shares Fire's borders, because Fire and Wind have always been kin…"

And so it went, for many hours—_days, weeks, months_—as the two walked through the gray, lifeless, stone-dotted forest. Guide led the way with fire in his hands and Traveler followed, listening to Guide speak of the Lands of the Dead.

"I like the Land of Sun the best," he said, after a very long time. "Aside from Forest, I mean."

Guide dipped his head. "The Land of the Sun is the most glorious of our lands," he acknowledged. "It is the highest of them, and the closest to the Mother. Only those truly at peace, who do not miss life at all, go there."

Traveler tilted his head. "You miss your life?"

Guide smiled, and it was tinged with sorrow. Traveler _knew _that expression, had seen it before, and he reached for it—

But it was gone.

"Of course I miss my life," Guide said. "I was cut from it when I was fairly young, by my people's standards. I left behind a mate, and a child, and a people that desperately needed me."

"Have they died too? Your mate and child, I mean."

Guide shrugged, and the flames in his hands flickered, threatening to go out. "I do not believe so," he said. "We cannot watch the living. They can dream us, and sometimes we see them in the memories of others who have died, but we cannot watch them. We can only wait to see their faces in the river, or their bodies in the stones, or, if we are lucky, embrace them as they enter our death-homes."

"That's _sad_," Traveler murmured, and looked away. His chest burned. Guide's grief was palpable, flickering like the fire in his palms.

"Yes," Guide said heavily. "I suppose it is. But despair not, young one. It is the existence I have chosen for myself. I am content with it."

The man shook his head. He didn't understand. "But you could go to the Land of the Sun," he said. "You're dead, and you can't do anything to help the living, so why stay? Go be at peace."

"It is not easy," Guide said. "And I am a bit of a coward. But perhaps one day, I will go. All do, eventually."

Traveler shifted, trying not to peer into the stone faces of the sleeping as he passed. He didn't want to see anyone he knew after all.

"Do not worry," Guide repeated. "My existence will not be yours. You are meant for _more._"

"What do you mean?" Traveler tilted his head, clutching his flask tightly. It was warm in his grasp.

Guide smiled, banishing his melancholy. "Look," he said, and pointed. Up ahead, through the dense, gray trees, _light _was bursting through the forest. He saw the silver river again, flowing, always flowing, and a landscape that was war-torn and blood splattered, the gray ground liberally splashed with crimson.

"This is the Land of Blood," Guide said. "Look. We have left the Gray Land behind us."

Traveler turned, and saw the vast expanse of it behind him. He smiled. "So far," he murmured.

Guide nodded, pleased. "And farther still to go," he said. "You will not have to go through all the lands, of course, only a few, but still, it is a long journey."

"Yes," the Traveler agreed, looking into his flask. He knew many things now, thoughts and emotions and fragments of memory. He tightened his grip. The river would not wash this away from him, not this time.

"And here comes your next guide," said the elf.

"You're leaving me?"

Guide smiled. "No," he said. "I have been tasked with taking you all the way. We will get temporary companions as we go, but I will remain."

"Good." Traveler relaxed, shading his eyes against the bright silver. A being was advancing down the blood-stained hills, strong-limbed, fierce, and leaning on an axe.

"Hello," Traveler said, suddenly nervous.

Guide hid a smile.

"Hello," said the newcomer. "You may call me War. I am here to take you through the Blood Land."

"War," Traveler said. It fit, and he promptly stowed the _rightness _of it inside the flask. "Hello, War. Shall we go?"

War threw back his head and laughed and laughed. "Yes," he boomed. "Yes, let us go. Onward!"

And he raised his axe and charged towards the hills, and Traveler tore after him, yelling a warcry.

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**Sorry, this chapter was more worldbuilding than anything. If you have any questions about the Lands of the Dead, just let me know!**

**~WSS**


	22. Chapter Twenty One: Empire

**Chapter Twenty-One! Thanks for all your love and support, guys, I really mean it. :) I'm going to try and get as much done as I can by November 8th (expect a ton of updates on the 7th) but knowing that a lot of you are with me, even if CP's book comes out, means the _world. _**

**Thank you so much. :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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Chapter Twenty-One: Empire

For two days, Roran waited, poised to flee, for Jensen to reveal him to Captain Derek. Who wouldn't? He was a known traitor to the Empire, one of the Varden's leaders, and anyone who captured him would be granted earldom from the King.

Everyone in their right mind would happily turn him in.

But Jensen, for some reason, was not.

Two days and he hadn't said a word to Captain Derek, or Roran himself. The healer continued to treat the bearded man and all his other patients with friendliness and quiet efficiency, and ignored the large bounty and hero status that would come with turning Roran in.

_It's not like I can get far, _Roran thought bitterly. He had a hard enough time dragging himself out of the healer's tent for daily exercises, let alone a trek across the wintery Alagaesia back to Belatona. And Derek wouldn't let him find Trumpet, not yet.

"When yer stronger," he promised, "and can train with the others. No point in capturing the horse just to leave him unable to work, aye?"

"Aye," Roran had agreed, through gritted teeth. Derek made him nervous. The man was clearly intelligent, and ambitious—he dreamed of making the Red Guard the elite fighting force of the Empire, and wanted to use Roran and other "berserkers" to do it.

The worst part, though, was that Derek was a Northerner. He was from Therinsford, hardly a stone's throw away from Caravahall. Hell, Roran had even lived there, for a time, and he knew Therinsford was only a little better off than Carvahall. Most people hovered on the brink of starvation during the winter months, and Roran knew that could change a man.

Derek was a servant of the Empire, and a gleeful one at that, but Roran knew where he came from, and sympathized with him. Hunger, poverty, and suffering were powerful motivators, and many in the north saw the Empire as a way out—a few years of good, hard service and they could retire with a soldier's pension and be that farther away from starving.

Roran had considered joining the Empire himself, at one point. He was a strong, healthy young man, after all, the kind the recruiters liked to chat up in taverns and in front of the shops. He would've done it, too, if the miller in Therinsford hadn't offered him a job. Money, to his war-free mind back then, was money, and it meant that he'd be closer to marrying Katrina.

Roran could have, very, very easily, been like Captain Derek, and that _terrified _him.

_I could never serve the Empire, _he thought to himself, trying desperately to dispel the image of himself in Imperial armor, splattered with good folk's blood. _It's evil. They kill us. They killed _my father, _and Yazuac, and countless others. I could never serve them. _

But that didn't soothe his fears. After all, the Red Guard had treated him with nothing but camaraderie and respect. They'd taken him in, a bloody, half-dead warrior who bore an uncanny resemblance to Roran Stronghammer, their foe, and nursed him back to health.

From what he'd seen, they weren't the bloodthirsty, battle-hungry, women-killing murderers he'd come to expect from the Empire. They were just… normal people, living and fighting together, trying to survive and bring a bit of money back home for their children.

_I could be one of them. _

It was easy—frighteningly so—to imagine himself in their place, laughing and joking with his mates around the campfire, going off to fight shadows the next day. He would've done it, too, if it brought money home, for his father, for Katrina, for Carvahall.

Anything for them.

_Except, _said Garrow from the shadows, leaning against the fluttering white tent-cloth, _you didn't turn yourself in for them. The Ra'zac promised to leave the village alone, if only you went with them. They wouldn't have killed you, either. The King wants you alive. You'd make a good servant, you see. No, everything would have been fine. The village would still be there. The dead would not be so. Katrina would be safe, and you could marry her, for the King would pay you handsomely…_

_Shut up, _Roran hissed at the wraith, fisting his hands into the white sheets. _I made the choices I had to make. To protect Eragon. _

Garrow laughed softly. _Keep telling yourself that, my boy. _

"What are you staring at?" Jensen shifted into view, eyeing Roran with a raised brow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Roran tried to smile, but his face didn't seem to want to cooperate. _My dead father. _

Jensen sighed, and came closer, his hands full of bandages and salve. Roran watched him warily.

"Oh, none of that," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I told you before, young warrior, I am not your enemy."

Roran looked around the tent quickly, double-checking that no one was there. "You know who I am," he hissed, low and fierce. "I am Roran Stronghammer. Enemy of the Empire. You work with the Empire. You are my enemy."

Jensen shook his head. "You really are young, aren't you?"

"You're not much older than me!"

"But infinitely wiser, it would seem," the healer said dryly. "Hold still."

Roran reluctantly did so.

"I serve the Empire, yes," Jensen murmured thoughtfully, carefully unwrapping Roran's wound, "but before I am an Imperial soldier, I am a healer."

"An Imperial healer."

"A healer," Jensen said firmly. "And my father was a healer, and his mother, and her parents, all the way to our ancestors, who were not only healers but powerful beings. There has been a healer in our family in every generation, as far back as we can trace ourselves. We use our gift well, and as a result have been richly rewarded by the Kings of all races.

"When Vrael lost the war, Galbatorix demanded our fealty, and we gave it willingly."

"_Willingly?"_

"Hush," Jensen snapped, and his eyes were shadowed. He stripped off the bandages and went to work examining the wound. Roran winced in pain, but didn't speak again.

"We gave him our fealty willingly. We have always given it willingly, to whomever asks for it."

"In the gods' names, _why_?"

The Imperial shrugged. "Masters come and go, but healers are always needed. We would rather serve a man like Galbatorix than allow our gift to be lost forever."

Roran hissed as Jensen hit a particular sore spot, and still did not break his silence.

"Our family has always been healers," Jensen continued, slowly now that he was applying magic and medicine. "And we have developed laws among us, the most important of which is this. First, do no harm."

Roran blinked slowly, confused.

"It means, do not hurt anyone," the healer explained. "Ever, if you can avoid it. We were given great powers to heal, and have been allowed, through thousands of years, king after king, tyrant after tyrant, to practice our art because we do not hurt anyone. They respect us, because first, we do no harm."

Roran stared. How was that possible? Alagaesia had been at war for a century—harm was everywhere.

"This is why I will not reveal who you are," Jensen said. "You are my patient, right now. It's my job to heal you. And turning you over to the Empire for torture or worse is doing you harm."

"There's no way you're that good of person," Roran said flatly. "_No one _is that good of a person. Not me. Not the Empire. Not the Varden. No one."

"Oh? Not even your cousin?"

Roran looked away, and fury and pain welled in his chest. From the shadows, Garrow laughed.

"No," he murmured. "Not even my cousin."

"They call him a monster here," Jensen continued, conversationally. He was bandaging the wound now, sealing the medicines inside. "They can respect you, and even your Lady Nasuada, for you are just men, as they are. But Eragon fights them as a Dragon Rider. He doesn't fight them as a mortal man—he fights them as a god, riding high on his dragon. He could kill them with blades, or fire, or with a word. To them, he's a monster."

"_Don't_," Roran snarled, surging forward, wrapping his good fingers around Jensen's throat, "talk about him like that. He was a _hero._"

Jensen shrugged carefully. "I do not doubt it," he said. "But you would do well to remember, _Cadoc Sloansson, _that there are heroes on both sides."

"Why are you saying all this?" Roran let go of him and reeled back, confused, pacing.

Jensen watched. "To stop harm."

"What?"

"The sooner you realize that the Empire is made up of men and women like yourself, Roran, the less harm will befall people all over the world. Yes, Galbatorix is an evil man. Yes, Eragon Shadeslayer was probably a good person. But they fight on the level of gods, Roran, and we are just men. Good and evil are not our business. We're just people, you see."

"Stop it," Roran said, turning away.

Garrow laughed.

"No," said Jensen. "You must understand this."

"Why? I'm not the leader of the Varden, or the Empire. I'm a solider, that's all. I do what I'm told."

"And your Lady told you to go running through the countryside in a snowstorm? No, you are no mere soldier, any more than I am. You will do what you _must_, no matter the consequences, and that makes you a _leader. _And so I have to try, at least, to show you that the Varden is wrong about the Empire, as the Empire is wrong about the Varden."

"So I don't butcher them, as they butchered my father, or Yazuac, or hundreds and thousands of people?"

"Yes," said Jensen, and rage closed Roran's throat.

_They deserve it! _he wanted to scream, and his fingers curled and uncurled furiously.

Jensen snorted, and seized Roran by the arm, dragging him out into the daylight. At once Roran froze, his instincts screaming at him to hide, to get away from Jensen, to not draw attention to himself.

"Come with me," the healer ordered, and pulled the wounded man along, through the camp. "That man there is Merle Dawsson. He repairs all of our weapons. He lost both his eldest sons to disease, and he youngest to an Urgal raid. His shop was destroyed, so he works for the Empire to support his wife and two daughters.

"This man is Naman the Hawk. He's from the Southern tribes. He fights because he lost his home, and has nowhere else to go.

"That is Elias Coopersson, our archery expert, who made his living hunting until the size of Teirm grew too big to support with local game."

On and on it went, Jensen dragging Roran around, showing him the lives of Imperial soldiers one by one. Some had once been hunters, or farmers, or blacksmiths, sons and husbands and brothers. They had been driven to the war by hunger, or greed, or desire for valor; there were good men and sneaky, cruel men equally.

Roran did not want to hear this. He didn't want to know that Samael Treesplitter's only daughter was kidnapped by rebels, and his sole goal was to find the man who raped her and kill him.

He didn't want to know that Kalinsson had no first name, and couldn't remember what village he came from; all he knew was the fight.

He didn't want to know that Merle Dawsson was a good man who loved to fry his chicken in grease, and that his firstborn's name had been Garth.

He didn't want to know that Aaron was a crook, and was only in the army to rob the bodies of the dead.

He didn't want to know _any of it. _

"Enough," he snapped, finally, dragging his arm free of Jensen's grip. "Enough, damn it, man, _I don't want to know._"

Jensen's eyes glittered. "But you must," he said. "You must, and now that you know, you won't forget." He spread his arms wide, indicating the entire camp. "You won't forget that men live here, not just monsters. And, when the Empire learns who you are, they won't forget either."

"Wait," Roran hissed, stepping closer. "You're going to _tell _them?" He thought of all the ways he could silence Jensen—break his neck, smother him, hit him in the temple—and run. He couldn't get far, but if he could find Trumpet, or his hammer—

"Peace," Jensen said soothingly. "I already told you I would not reveal you, didn't I? And I won't. But you can't hide it forever, you know. Sooner or later someone will but it together. And then what will you do?"

"Run."

The healer shook his head. "You wouldn't make it. Think harder. What are you good at, Sloansson? What have you done already, to secure your safety?"

Roran frowned. "Lied?"

"Well, close enough. You won the Captain to your side. He believes that you are a friend, not a threat. Convince the rest of the Red Guard that you are not their enemy, and they will not fight you."

"_What?_"

Jensen looked like he wanted to hit himself in the face. "You have a talent for winning people to your cause. When you left the north, you took your entire village with you. You won respect in the Varden within months, and rose to the second-in-command position in less than a year. People _believe _in you. You convinced the Captain of an Imperial Guard that you are a friend, not an enemy. It shouldn't be terribly hard to win the rest of them, now should it? They already respect you as a warrior. Respecting you as a leader should come naturally."

"You're telling me," Roran said, slowly and clearly, to make sure he understood, "to convince an _entire regiment of the Empire's troops to desert?_"

Jensen smiled, pleased. "Precisely."

"You're insane," the general gaped. "I mean, I thought my family was crazy—remind me to introduce you to Murtagh sometime—but you, you're _insane._"

Jensen blinked, looking mildly affronted. "I'm not insane," he said. "It could work. You have a gift, idiot, much like my healing, or your cousin's power. You can _lead _people, or have you not noticed?" The healer pulled Roran aside, farther out of the way.

The cold bit his skin, and he was uncomfortably reminded of the Hound. His newly dressed shoulder throbbed.

"An entire village uprooted itself to follow you. The Varden, which has been wary of outsiders since its creation, accepted you and made you a commander without pause. Do you not understand how unusual that is? The Empire accepted your tale at face value, and plans to use you as a soldier.

"You have been _gifted, _Roran Stronghammer, with the abilities of a speaker and a leader. This is good. This means you can survive, and maybe help others survive as well."

Roran stared. He had a point, unfortunately. He _was _good at talking to people. He had led an entire village out of its ancestral home, through the _Spine _no less, and convinced them to steal a ship and join the Varden. And the Varden had welcomed him with uncharacteristically open arms—though he'd always chalked that up to his relation to Eragon and his defeat of the Twins. Was it something more?

He had the Urgals fighting for him, alongside men. He was Nasuada's general, her right hand, slated to lead the campaign against Dras Leona.

He could talk to people, convince them to follow him.

Perhaps it was time to use that skill to his advantage.

He looked sideways at Jensen, warily, fingers curling and uncurling. "Alright," he said softly, carefully. "Alright, I can try. Tell me what I need to do."

Jensen smiled, smug. "First," he said, "you need to heal, and start training with the men to gain their trust…"

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**Thanks for reading!**

**Also, if you haven't had the chance to watch _The Walking Dead _yet, DO IT. **

**~wss**


	23. Chapter Twenty Two: Old Lore

**Hey! Okay, so this is probably the last update before the 7th. I hope to have 6 to 15 chapters ready for y'all then, so we shall see. **

**Thank you for the reviews and support!**

**Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. **

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"Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it." –George Santayana

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Chapter Twenty-Two: Old Lore

"You genuinely want to know these things?" Lore asked, studying Arya and Murtagh with his sharp, pale gray eyes. "The old legends, that have been lost for centuries do the meddling of elves and man?"

Arya suppressed a sigh, nodding. "This knowledge is vital to our goal," she said.

"You'd know it already, if your peoples hadn't burned the books," Lore snapped, visibly upset. The strange armor on his chest glinted and he wrung his hands, eyes flashing.

Griffin laid a soothing hand on his half-brother. "You cannot punish these two for the crimes of their forefathers," he said. "Besides, they're not human and elf, not now. They're Dragon Riders. And the Riders always preserved the old stories, if they could."

"If it suited their purposes, I mean," Lore snorted. "Thousands of years of history are lost because the Riders saw fit to hide it."

Beside Arya, Murtagh spread his hands appealingly. "We swear we will not allow this knowledge to be lost," he swore. "I will pass it on for as long as I live."

At the ancient language, Lore stiffened, then relaxed again.

"I too swear," Arya added, and he nodded, apparently satisfied.

_You have done well to promise this, _Glaedr murmured in her head. _But do not make a habit of swearing oaths to the Gray Folk. They created the ancient language, and can bind you tighter than you ever dreamed. _

_Point taken. _

"You seek the Vault of Souls," Lore said, sitting deep in his chair. His gray eyes seemed to brighten in the shadows. "A far-fetched quest, for those who do not know the truth."

"The truth being?" Murtagh asked.

"The creation of the world."

"The dragon-stories," Arya said, meeting Lore's eyes.

He nodded. "Precisely. You've spoken to your Elders, then?"

Arya shrugged, not sure of what to say. Griffin knew of the Eldunarí and it made sense that Lore, the Librarian, knew of them also, but she didn't want to speak of them.

"The way to the Vault of Souls has been lost for centuries," Lore continued. "Once, in the time long before the Riders, all beings came and went to the Vault freely, bargaining with Death for their loved ones. The legend is that Death grew tired of these constant petitions for things he thought were _his_—the souls of the dead, that is—and fought with his brother, Lord Earth. The Rock of Kuthain cracked as a result of this battle, and the River of Lost Dreams trickled through, poisoning Lady Water and all the rivers of the world.

"The poisoned water flowed through every river and stream, until it was drunk by all the humans, dwarves, dragons, and elves. The River of Lost Dreams is bitterly cold, and hungry for the memories of the world; it washed away the knowledge of the Vault of Souls, and drove the people of Alagaesia out into the wide, wild world, across the sea. Only the dwarves and dragons remained, and for a thousand years, no one traveled to the Vault. It was forgotten, remembered only in dream, and only saved through dragon-legends.

"When the elves bonded with the dragons, they regarded the Vault of Souls as an amusing fairy tale, and did not pursue it. Only fortunetellers and a few enlightened, and the dragons, of course, believed in it."

Arya nodded. "This is all interesting, Lore-ebrithil, but we are pressed for time."

The Librarian gave her a hard look, and Murtagh coughed suspiciously. She subsided.

"You know of Caspar, I assume?"

Both Arya and Murtagh nodded—she had told him the night previously, and of dragon-legend.

"When Caspar the Wanderer found the Vault of Souls and the lands beyond, he left very few records. Most were destroyed by the elves—" a glare "—but I have managed to save two journals."

"May we see them?" Arya fought to keep the eagerness out of her voice.

"No. They are in the Library, and will not leave it. However, I will tell you what I learned." He leaned forward, eyes serious. "The way to the Forest of the Mother is extremely dangerous. It is magic-land, for it was inhabited by the gods. You will encounter all sorts of creatures you have never before seen, and trials will plague your footsteps."

"What sort of creatures?" Murtagh rumbled. "We have fought Halflings, and men who cannot feel pain. What is more frightening?"

"The Hounds," Lore said. "Death's own hunters. Or the griffins, half eagle, half enormous wild cat. Or the Specters, lost spirits who swallow beings whole and cannot be killed."

Murtagh canted his head.

"We'll be flying," Arya pointed out. "High above most other creatures."

Lore dipped his head. "True. You must take care, then, to be wary when you land for the night. If you are quick, and _respectful, _most creatures will leave you alone. Do not leave a fire burning. Do not leave food scraps uneaten. Do not cut down trees, or overturn rocks. If you trample the grass to sleep, mend the damage in the morning. And do _not _drink the river water. Drink only water you can pull from the ground."

"Or what?"

Lore smiled, and it wasn't a friendly grin. "Caspar was very clear on that. He found the lost regiment of elves, you know."

"The Army of Leaves?" Arya remembered her mother's tale, and how great the grief of the elves must have been, to lose _hundreds _of their own. She shivered.

"Yes," Griffin chimed in, for the first time. Lore glared at him, and the older Lost One grinned cheekily.

"Caspar found the Army of Leaves," Lore continued, "scattered throughout the east. Some had run afoul of the Hounds, who prefer to stay in the east. Others had been ripped apart by claws and beaks; they met the griffins. Others still were only piles of empty armor, devoured by the Specters and other spirits.

"But the worst was the bodies by the lakeshore."

"The lakeshore?" Murtagh cut in, his eyes sharp and watchful.

"Aye. Caspar called it the Lake of Mirrors, and on the eastern shore, he found hundreds of bodies. The Army of Leaves was utterly destroyed, as if they had been ravaged by some terrible, invincible enemy. As Caspar wandered through the destruction, he realized that they had not died fighting a great beast, as he had thought.

"He found that some had died of gashes, others of burns, others still of magical ways. He found a young elf dead, his commander's sword in his back. The Army of Leaves fought each other, down to the very last man. They ripped each other apart, and Caspar did not know why; all he knew was that he must hurry on, and not drink from the Lake.

"On his return journey, Caspar stopped to burn the dead, and spent the night on the shore. He was overcome by the powerful urge to drink. He resisted, but at night, he awoke in the lake itself, up to his chest in water. He heard voices calling him, demanding that he drink, and drown himself, and he used the remains of his magic to fire himself out of the water.

"He nearly died. It took him several weeks to recover. He said this was not the only trial, either." Lore leaned back again. "You are speaking of going through god-land, young Riders. Lands that have not been inhabited for centuries. You won't be fighting men there, you know, or the creations of men, like the Halflings."

Griffin nodded. "You fought Galbatorix, and survived," he said to Murtagh. "And you have seen to the death of two Shades, Arya. This makes you stronger than ordinary beings, stronger than the Army of Leaves, than Caspar. But you are _not _gods. You, for all your powers, can die. You cannot forget that. You are going into Death's land. Everything there, from the animals, to the plants, to the water itself, will try to kill you. He hates those who defy him."

"Defy him?" Arya arched a brow. "We have never defied Death. When it is our time, we will go."

"You seek to take Eragon's soul from him," Lore pointed out. "Besides, you are so-called immortals. You will not die, unless sickness or a wound takes you. Your very existence incites Death's wrath."

Arya frowned. "Why?"

_I shall explain that, _Glaedr rumbled, in all of their minds, his voice deep and old. _It is a dragon-tale, not for even the Gray Folk to share. _

_Then begin, esteemed one, _Lore murmured, and his mind felt like wild wind and ice. Arya saw Murtagh wince, and she felt like doing the same.

_In the early times, after the Gray Folk had been wiped from the land and Death introduced to the world, the dragons were hit hardest of all. The dragons were created by two gods—Lady Wind and Lord Flame, and Death hated us most of all because Lord Flame had been the one to lead him into his prison, the Vault of Souls. _

_So, with only Lady Wind left to protect the dragons, Death took as many of us as he could reach. Hatchlings lived for maybe three season-cycles before they died. We had no elders. Our lives were too short, too brief, for us to hold a history. The dragons tottered on the brink of oblivion—we would cease to be without thought, feeling, or a past. We would only be senseless animals. _

_So one of our brave young dragons, Esca, flew to the Vault of Souls and hid there, until Death, gorged on the our blood, slept. While Lord Ice was sleeping, Esca snuck up on him and breathed the Flame. Wounded and blind, Death reeled, unable to destroy Esca. In his writhings, Death revealed the secret to immortality—roses, a hundred thousand of them, growing on his body like scales. Each petal was a life, and when the petal fell, the life went out. _

_On Death's forehead was the biggest rose of all, pure white, and magic flowed from these petals to all the others. _

_This rose was the White Rose, with petals touched by the gods; each petal was a great hero, or great villain, of every race created. The souls of all the great ones let life and power flow to all the others, and so life, and therefore death, could not exist without them. These were the petals Death was forbidden to touch—he had to wait for those deaths, or use others to cause them. _

_Esca reached out and grabbed the rose on Death's forehead, tearing it from him, and fled from Death, and though the Hounds pursued him, they could not catch him. _

_Eventually, with his power weakened, Death cornered Esca and offered him a deal. If Esca would return the White Rose, which held the souls of the god-chosen, Death would grant the dragons eternal life, unless wound or sickness took them. _

_Esca agreed, and returned to the Vault of Souls to bind Death to his promise. Death was bound, and the White Rose returned. _

_But Death was vindictive, and had the Hounds waiting for Esca. They leaped on him and broke his wings; he ran. _

_Unable to fly, Esca could not outrun the Hounds, and was trapped at the Lake of Mirrors. The Hounds drove him into the water, and though he killed many, Death simply gave them life again. Esca was wounded, outnumbered, and close to drowning in the lake. He fought like a hero for three days, but the Hounds ripped and tore until he was dead. _

_As he lay dying (for the Hounds let him die slowly) Esca saw that dragons would no longer die as barely-halflings; they would lead great, long lives. But they would still die, and Esca was bitter. _

_So, with the power he could draw from the Lake of Mirrors, he gave each dragon another Heart, and told them that, if they chose, they could put their souls into that Heart and never die, even if their earthly bodies crumbled. _

_And then Esca died._

_It is believed that he did not go to the realms of Death. The Lord Ice claimed his body, but his spirit was called to the side of Father Sky, so that Esca might fight the White One until the end of time. _

_The White One? _Lore asked.

_Will you take all my tales from me? _Glaedr rumbled, not unkindly. _ The White and Black are the two forces of nature, harmony and chaos, if you will. The Black, harmony and balance, is believed to be the soul of Esca, who fought for a chance against death—harmony. The White is thought to be Rowan, a marauder among dragons, who stole everything from food to hatchlings and tried to burn the Mother's Forest down. He is chaos. _

_These two souls, elevated after their bodies' death, are forever locked in mortal combat, until the end of time when one of them will win. _

_But they are not important to this story, or your journey, _Glaedr said, half stern. _What you must learn from Esca's tale is this; Death is clever. He does not like making deals with any creature, and he hates dragons most of all. _

_He hates immortals too, _Arya added. _Because by our prolonged lives we defy him. _

_Very good. Yes, he despises immortals. _

_He does not go back on his deals, either, _Murtagh pointed out. _He allowed immortality to be granted to the dragons. He killed Esca, but he didn't say that he wouldn't, either. _

_Exactly, _the old dragon said. _If you make it to the Vault of Souls, and meet Death, be extremely careful in your bargaining. Death will look for a loophole, and it is unlikely that he will let you escape unscathed. _

_We understand, Glaedr-elda, _Arya said respectfully. _Will you come with us?_

_No. I shall stay here, so we can aid the young Riders. Have you named your temporary replacement, Murtagh?_

_Aye. Erik and Konungr will lead just fine. _

_Very well. I shall introduce myself to them. _

_Perhaps you should wait, _Arya said. _It is the middle of the night. _

The old dragon snorted. _What do I care? _he said dryly. _I'm dead, child. _

And then he was gone.

_Dragons, _Lore said, and the green Rider couldn't tell if he was admiring or disdainful.

"So now we know what to expect, at least," Murtagh murmured, eyes thoughtful. "A bit of it, anyway."

Lore nodded deeply. "You are more prepared than anyone has been in thousands of years. And you are both determined people, and you love Eragon deeply. You know what you must do. You know what you have to avoid."

The Lost One leaned back, and Griffin laughed softly.

"You'll survive, I think," said Lore. "Thank your Elder for his stories. And remember, don't try and outsmart Death. You cannot. He'll take you, and laugh."

_Gods, _Arya thought, her head spinning. _Gods and stories. What am I supposed to believe? That there really are these gods, these heroes, and they created the world and fight for it and against it and in it? How is it possible? The elves have taught for millennia that there are no gods. We have never seen one, or heard one, or experienced one. _

_But maybe, _whispered a sly voice in Arya's mind. _Maybe, the elves hid that from their children too. _

_And besides, _she told herself, to quiet the turmoil in her brain and chest, _I am no longer elf. _

"Thank you," Murtagh said, and offered Lore and his brother a slight bow. He leaned on Zar'roc and limped away, leading Arya out the door, and as they went she saw the two Lost Ones bend their heads together, speaking in the language of the Gray Folk.

"So," the red Rider said, once they were outside. Night blanketed Belatona like the snow, thick and oppressive.

"So," Arya murmured reflexively. Her mind whirled. Dragons and gods and legends, rolling together into one.

It was beyond belief.

"We should probably plan this out," Murtagh said. "So we don't die before we get there."

"Yes," she agreed, even though she really didn't want to spend any more time in Murtagh's company. "Fine."

He nodded, limping beside her.

She stopped.

"You said 'don't die before we get there,'" she said slowly, turning it over. "What about on the way back?"

He offered her a crooked, sharp-toothed grin, and didn't respond.

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**I'm trying to write a chapter from Saphira's POV. Really, I am. It's in the plans. It's just... not working. Ugh. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	24. Chapter Twenty Three: Warrior

**So, here ya go people, lotsa chapters! Thank you so much for the overwhelming support. Really, I love you all so, so, _so _much. You're the most amazing fans. **

**isclaimer: Inheritance is not mine.**

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"I called out for blood, abstractly, like a man who called out for wine." -_The Man Who was Thursday_

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Chapter Twenty-Three : Warrior

"This is warrior's death," War said, hefting his axe. The trio of travelers stood on a hilltop and looked down at the land below them. It was the same washed-out color as the Gray Lands Traveler had come from, but bloodstains dotted the grass a vivid, colorful crimson.

Behind them the silver river flowed and flowed, and below them, there was only war.

Men, dwarves, elves, dragons, Urgals, beasts Traveler had never seen or heard of before, writhed and howled and screamed in mortal combat. Blood flew, adding new stains to the earth, and they all screamed and hacked at each other.

Swords bit necks, claws rent flesh, axes cleaved skulls, and fists pulverized armor and skin.

It made Traveler faintly sick to watch.

"You _enjoy _this?" He asked War, trying not to watch and listen.

War grinned at him, and Guide politely looked away. "Nothing better," he laughed. "Ah, the smell of blood, the roar of battle, the vicious, powerful _urge _to find your enemies, and _end _them, there's nothing better in life!"

"But you're dead," Traveler said. "How can you die again?"

"We don't," said War. "When we are slain in battle, we wake up in the halls, feast, and go back to war." He shrugged, noticing Traveler's slightly pale face and Guide's patient disapproval. "It's not for everyone, I suppose."

"No," Traveler said. "Not for me, anyway."

"Flask, young one."

Traveler dutifully pulled the sparkling bit of self-knowledge out and dropped into his flask, letting it mingle with all the other pieces of himself.

Guide nodded. "Good."

"Interesting, that," War said, eyeing it. "Keeping track of yourself, then?"

Traveler nodded.

"Excellent." War hefted his axe up onto his shoulder and gave the seething mass of battle and blood another long, wistful sigh. "Ah, well. You are more important, I suppose."

"Why is everyone saying that?" Traveler muttered. "I don't even know who I am."

"Well, that's the thing, isn't it?" War said. "We have to help you remember."

"Why?"

"Keep adding memories to your little jar," War ordered, jabbing his axe. "Come. The only way out is in."

"Wait," Traveler said, balking, eyeing the seething, bloody mess below. "Through _that_, you mean?"

"Of course," War laughed, slapping Traveler on the back. "You must travel through the Land of Blood if you want to continue."

Traveler blinked, taking in the heaving mass of limbs and steel and scales, and felt a little sick. "I'm not a fighter," he said. "I don't know how. I can't—"

"Nonsense!" War boomed. He pulled a sword—gleaming, sharp-edged—from thin air and bowed, presenting it to Traveler.

Traveler took it reluctantly, and was startled to find that the weight of it comforted him, and he _knew _the sword, how to swing it, how to block, how do go for an enemy's throat.

He blanched.

_Am I a fighter? Do I like killing?_

War grinned, slapped his back again. "Don't be scared, young one," he said cheerfully. "You're not going to get hurt, and you're not going to hurt anyone else. We can't die, remember? We just wake up somewhere else! Come."

"I don't—"

"You must," Guide said gently, stepping in. He too had a weapon—a long sword, and a bow and a quiver full of arrows—and was tensing himself, ready to leap into the fray. "We must go through the Land of Blood to get to the Lands beyond."

"And who knows?" War rumbled. "Perhaps you'll learn something about yourself, eh, little brother?"

And with that, War threw his beard over his shoulder and howled, bounding down the hillside with his axe aloft. "Follow me!"

Guide leaped nimbly after War and Traveler reluctantly followed, muttering curses—_I know how to swear, at least_—and holding tight to the sharp blade in his hands.

At once, the fighting inhabitants turned and, seeing the three racing down the hillside, howled and rushed to meet them.

Traveler screwed his eyes shut, tightening his grip on the sword, and tensed—

The roaring mass reached him, and suddenly, he was fighting. A man, dressed in armor—_Empire_—got through Guide and War first, eyes burning bright, and he raised his sword high—

Traveler reacted, bringing his own blade up sharply, and metal clanged against metal, sending white-yellow sparks gushing into the air.

Over the locked blades, Traveler met the soldier's eyes, and the soldier grinned wickedly.

"Come on!" War cried, and he was already in the thick of battle, cleaving skulls and limbs with his mighty weapon. Guide was even farther ahead, bounding through the battle nimbly, sword flashing.

The soldier laughed, pressing down, and Traveler gasped, struggling, pushing back.

_I can't lose them, _he thought frantically. _They're going to get me out of here. They're going to help me remember who I _am_. I need them. _

_I need them—!_

Roaring, Traveler shoved back, breaking the deadlock and slashing at the soldier's armored chest.

The soldier retaliated, striking broadly, but Traveler _knew _what to do—he had to duck, and block, and slash again, and block, dodge, strike.

Sparks flew and metal screeched, and Traveler slammed into the soldier, cleaving through armor and drawing blood. The soldier howled, falling away, and Traveler grinned despite himself.

_I can do this!_

Another warrior—an Urgal, this time, rushed to take the fallen soldier's place, and Traveler leaped at him. Somehow he knew that an Urgal's weakest point was its massive legs, and he cut at them eagerly, ignoring the blood that sprayed and stained the grayed earth crimson.

"That's the way!" War bellowed, lost in the fight. "Remember! You know how to do this!"

Traveler whooped fearlessly, and plunged forward again and again, clashing swords, scattering sparks, biting through armor and leather and steel.

On and on he whirled, all sorts of creatures falling at his feet.

Men howled and slashed at him; he battered their blades aside. Elves darted around him swiftly; he dodged their strikes and arrows. Urgals thundered towards him; he cut their legs, and rolled away from their massive bodies.

Even dragons, armed with claw and fang and fire, didn't slow him down much. He quickly learned to duck the fire, dodge the claws, and bash at the fangs with his sword. He was reluctant to slice open dragonhide, but he did so, turning aside all comers.

Ahead War and Guide still bounded, and he followed gleefully, letting the blood-tide rise and spike in his blood. He wasn't hurting anyone, not really; they were all already dead, so he could simply fight and revel in his own skill, and the skill of his opponents, and he crashed and tore his way through them.

After fierce, bloody minutes—or hours, or days—of fighting, the roaring crowd began to thin, moving away from Traveler and his bloodstained companions.

Traveler wanted to go with them, to keep fighting, reveling in it, but Guide stopped him.

"You have done very well," he said.

"Aye," War grinned. His beard was blood-splattered. "Have you learned something about yourself, then, young one?"

"I can fight," Traveler said.

War shook his head. "Can do more than fight, boy. You can fight, aye, but you can _kill, _if you wish, or not. That doesn't make you an ordinary fighter."

"It makes me a warrior," Traveler breathed, and suddenly _knew _it—he knew how to fight, and kill, but he didn't like killing. He liked fighting, though, pitting his skill against another, the feel of a blade in his hands—

(_though his was blue, or maybe red_)

—and the sheer _strength _needed to win.

"Put it in the flask," Guide ordered.

Traveler did so, cupping the reddish knowledge in his hand and putting it in with his other drops. It gleamed on the sides of the flask.

"Take this, too," War said, and in his hand was a fine, gleaming blade, much nicer than the battered one Traveler carried. "So you don't forget what you've learned here."

"Alright," Traveler said, and fitted the blade around his waist. He liked the weight of it, and felt comfortable. "Thank you, for helping me."

War grinned, his old face crinkling. "You are mine kin, Traveler. You and I, we're warriors both. And warriors must stick together."

Traveler bowed to him, and War toughed the crown on his head. "Good bye, young one. No doubt I'll see you again."

And then, yelling fit to rouse the dead, War thundered after the battle, waving his axe and whooping.

"Always an experience, the Land of Blood," Guide said, nudging Traveler gently in the direction of the next place. "You did very well."

Traveler glowed, overjoyed that he'd learned something new about himself.

"Now come. We have far to go and little time to get there."

And Guide led the way on.

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**Yeah, there are like three Traveler-centric chapters in this bout of updates. Sorry, if that isn't what you want to see. **

**~WSS**


	25. Chapter Twenty Four: Goodbyes

**Disclaimer: I do not own.**

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"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." –_Dr. Seuss_

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Chapter Twenty-Four: Goodbyes

Murtagh stood on the wall, looking down on the city, and breathed in a deep, ice-cold sigh. The city was still below him, just waking, as dawn broke, tingeing the clouds with pink.

Beside him, Thorn sighed heavily, looking out away from the city, towards Uru'baen.

Their bond pulsed with duty, and love.

_You don't want to leave her, _Murtagh said, stroking Thorn's neck.

_You don't want to leave yours, either. _

_No, _Murtagh agreed, remembering her gentle kiss only a few days before. The thought of it made his chest hurt, like it was cracking open. _But we must. _

_Aye, _said the crimson dragon wearily. _We must. _

Below them, in the city and on the fields, men were stirring, stumbling from their beds, clearing away the snow so the Varden could use the streets once more.

A supply train crawled in from the south, bringing oil and grain up from warm Surda, and some soldiers were already heading out to meet it, scanning the skies for any sign of Imperial forces, dragon or Halfling.

Murtagh knew that some of them half-expected to see Saphira crash out of the clouds and rain unholy fury down on them.

He also knew that it hurt Thorn, to have people think that, and he scratched his dragon's neck comfortingly.

_I'm okay, _Thorn said. _We're doing this to help Saphira. I'll see her again. Besides, the pack will get her out. I trust them. _

_You trust everyone, _Murtagh said, but there was no heat to it. _So when did you know you loved Saphira?_

_Since I saw her in your father's castle, before we rescued Eragon. _Thorn's memory went all soft and gentle at the edges. _She was beautiful, and fierce, and only concerned for her Eragon, not herself. That's what a Rider's dragon should be. _

_When did you know you were in love with Nasuada?_

Murtagh looked away, chewing his lip. _That, _he said flatly, _is a complicated question. _

They fell silent, looking out at the pink-tinged snow.

_D'you think the Varden will be okay without us?_

_Yes, _Murtagh said strongly. _The King does not dare leave Uru'baen in wintertime. The riots get bigger and more violent with every passing year, and idiots like Tariku aren't going to stop it, they'll just kill people and incite the rest of the city. _

Galbatorix's greatest strength as a ruler was his silver tongue. Murtagh had always known this. The Black King could convince a priest to murder his wife, without even breaking into his mind.

It was amazing, and also more than a little frightening to witness.

Galbatorix could calm the crowds, during the riots. He spoke to them, and soothed them, and sent them back on their way without casting a single spell.

Tariku, on the other hand, did not have this gift.

He was a crass, insolent, combative man, who acted like he was superior to all around him—exactly the kind of man the Lower City and the Middlings hated.

The rioters would eat him alive.

So Galbatorix was bound the Uru'baen, at least until the first thaws, which gave Murtagh about three months to travel to the east and back.

_With Eragon, hopefully. _

The Varden would be fine in his absence. They were always fine, after all. They survived twenty years on the outskirts of Alagaesia, begging and scavenging to eat. They were strong. They were well-settled into Feinster, Belatona, and Teirm, anyway.

They could help each other survive.

_And the pack is watching over them, _Thorn added.

_Aye. _

Murtagh turned to look at the clan below; from this high up they appeared to be the size of horses. He almost laughed. Fanged, clawed, brightly colored horses.

_Come on. Let's say our goodbyes. _

Thorn crouched, letting Murtagh scramble onto his back, and shoved off the wall hard, circling in the frigid air.

The streets were filling quickly now, as people bustled to and fro, going about their daily lives. Thorn circled the city once and descended again, landing in the keep's courtyard with a mighty thump.

His saddle packs rattled.

"You're ready to go, aren't you?" Vé stood not too far away, watching Murtagh with his typical thoughtful expression.

"Aye." Murtagh had been ready since long before dawn, when he had awoken, roused by dreams of walking and black dragons, howling as they were ripped by great, snarling white wolves.

The elf Rider dipped his head. "We'll miss you."

Murtagh blinked. "I will return," he promised. "With Eragon."

Vé tilted his head, fingering his dagger. "If I could believe that from anyone, I'd believe it from you," he said, and bowed. "May you go with light at your back, Murtagh Stormbreaker." And he bowed again, and slipped out of the courtyard.

_That was odd. _

Thorn shook his great head. _Sunna said pretty much the same to me. I think they're bad at goodbyes. _

_That makes three of us, then. _

Thorn nosed him affectionately, offering his neck for support. Murtagh leaned on it, using his dragon and Zar'roc as makeshift crutches.

Farther in, Erik and Konungr were close to Lovissa and Deloi, apparently speaking urgently. Raltin and his dragon were nowhere in sight.

"Murtagh," Erik said respectfully, as the red Rider neared. His beard was wild, but his eyes were soft and kind. He clapped Murtagh on the shoulder. "You will be careful, won'tcha? Don't wanna have t'find us a new leader, now."

Murtagh returned the gesture, gripping the bigger man's shoulder. "We'll be careful. We spoke with Griffin and Lore last night, as well as Glaedr. We've been suitably warned of the dangers."

"Glaedr," Erik snorted, rubbing his head. "Crazy old dragon popped in me head in the wee morning, y'know? I woke up all me neighbors howling."

"He did," Lovissa muttered.

"Glaedr is very old," Murtagh began, but Erik waved him off.

"Don't need t' explain him t'me. I remember him from when we were just hatchlings, before the Fall. Always was an odd one, was Glaedr."

_He is my sire, _Deloi said dryly.

_Runs in the family, then, _Konungr chuckled, huge orange tail twitching with amusement.

The bronze dragon hummed, for the first time since Ophelia's death. _Hush, youngling. _

_Youngling? You weren't much older than me when the Riders fell. _

_Old enough, _Deloi retorted, and Lovissa hid a chuckle behind her hand.

Warmth flooded Murtagh's chest. He loved these beings. They were _his _clan, damn it. Of course they'd be alright without him. They had clever Lovissa, cunning Vé, fierce Erik. They had Konungr, who was huge and terrible, and the quick Sunna, and Deloi who could raise the earth with a flick of his paw.

Murtagh pitied the idiot who got between them and the Varden.

He bowed to Erik, and then to Lovissa, in the style of swordsmen, as Tornac had taught him when he was hardly more than a boy.

"May you go with light at your back," he said feelingly, and then they bowed to him too.

"May the sun watch over you," they murmured back, and released him.

Murtagh moved away from them, because he didn't want to look any more.

He would miss them.

_You've gone soft, _he told himself. _You've gotten attached again, damn it. Didn't you learn anything from the last time?_

Thorn nudged his arm gently.

_Come on, _he said. _Arya's waiting for us outside the gate. She says Raltin is with her. _

Murtagh nodded. _Very well. _

He left the courtyard without looking back, limping determinedly through the city as he had done all those months ago, when he awoke to find his world broken.

People gathered on the sides of the streets, watching him go, whispering and calling amongst themselves.

"He's leaving," they whispered.

"On a special mission granted by the Lady herself."

"With the elf princess, no less."

"Stormbreaker! Stormbreaker!"

The voices followed him all the way out to the gate, where Lady Nasuada stood, regal in her finery, chin raised and shoulders proud. She was beautiful.

"Be safe, Murtagh Stormbreaker," she said, and grasped his hand. "Come back."

"I will," he promised her, and she smiled a bit, sadly, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek.

The entire Varden went dead silent.

Murtagh's cheek tingled, and he almost smiled. "Was that wise?"

"No," she said. "Probably not. But who knows when I will see you again?"

Murtagh took a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you," he whispered, low so no one else could hear. "I've always loved you."

She smiled. "I know," she said. Mutters erupted amongst the Varden, tearing free. The supply train drew closer.

"Be safe," Nasuada finally said, and she stepped away from him, back towards her Varden, leaving him with his Dragon Riders.

He understood, and he bowed to her slightly. _I will return, _he said in her mind, and she sent a warm curl of affection back.

_I know. Nothing can stop you, once you have your mind put to it. _

Murtagh breathed, and turned from her, and the Varden. He took careful, measured steps in the snow, showing no weakness, Thorn padding at his side, to where Ayra and Raltin stood with their dragons.

Raltin was staring at him, and Arya's face was as impassive as ever, except tinged with something a little like understanding.

"Do you have all you need?" she asked, instead of talking about what had just occurred.

"Yes," he said. "I have a mirror, some weapons, and enough food for three days' flight of the Hadrac."

Arya nodded, checking the saddle bag slung over Faolin.

_Are you ready to go, little one? _Murtagh asked Faolin. The green dragon's eyes brightened with determination.

_Yes. _

_Good. _

"I have everything I need as well," the elf said. "Chiefly the map and the feather."

"Raltin?" Murtagh asked.

The stone-face Rider nodded jerkily, clearly not happy, but not fighting, not yet.

_This is for your own good, _Murtagh said. _This is so you don't hurt anyone with your schemes. Be a Rider, Raltin, not a Forsworn. _

"I am fully prepared."

Murtagh nodded. "Excellent," he said, climbing up onto Thorn's broad back. He pulled his cloak tighter and fastened Zar'roc securely.

The other two climbed slowly onto their own dragons, settling in, and Arya quickly checked her supplies once again.

Murtagh noticed that she had Eragon's sword Brisingr strapped to her back, and suddenly, he had an idea.

_Wait, _he called to her, and hastily dismounted.

_Deloi! _he shouted.

There was a moment's pause, and then the bronze dragon rumbled back.

_Murtagh?_

_May Arya use Ophelia's sword? Erisdar? She doesn't have a Rider's sword of her own. She's using Eragon's. _

Deloi was silent for several long, painful seconds. Ophelia had been his mate, and Ophelia's Rider, Austric, had died over the Spine, leaving Ophelia heartbroken, with only her Rider's precious sword to remember him by.

When Shruikan killed Ophelia during the Battle of the Falling, Erisdar had fallen, and had not been burned with her body, as was custom. It had been found later, and Deloi had been keeping it safe ever since.

_So that her memory may carry on, _Murtagh said. _Swords are not made to be kept gathering dust and tears, Deloi. They're made for fighting. That's how we honor those who have gone before; by carrying their weapons into battle. _

_Very well, _the dragon said, after much thought. _I have no use for it, after all, and the Princess of the Elves will honor it will. She may have it. I shall bring it to you. _

Murtagh withdrew, satisfied.

Arya gave in a strange look.

"Wait for a moment," he urged her. "Deloi and Lovissa have something for you."

The great bronze dragon soon sailed over the Varden, landing with a snow-shaking thump. Erisdar was gripped tight in his paws, and he carefully presented it to Arya. Her eyes went wide.

_This is the sword of Austric, Ophelia's Rider. He was slain by Morzan as he tried to protect younglings, including myself, from the purges. Ophelia kept it, and I have kept it. _

Arya stared.

_I give it to you, Arya, Slayer of Shades, so that you may be a full Dragon Rider, and you may honor my mate's memory. _He dropped the sword into her hands. _Carry it well. _

_I will, _she swore faintly, her face shocked.

Murtagh smiled to himself, and thanked Deloi.

"Why?" Arya asked him.

He shrugged. "As a sign of good faith. I am not your enemy. I am your… fellow, I suppose, your brother-in-arms."

"So you convince a dragon to give me a sword?"

He shrugged again, and half-grinned at her. "One day, I will explain it to you."

_Thorn? Are you ready?_

In response, the crimson dragon flared his wide, strong wings, coiling his muscles. Though he was leaving _everything _behind, Murtagh could not mourn, or miss them.

He would return.

_Let us go, _he cried, to his companions, and Thorn shoved off hard, scattering ice and snow, rising on the currents of air until the Varden was a city of ants below him.

Faolin and Talon rose with him, and together, they set off for the east.

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**Two more tonight! Woo!**

**~WSS**


	26. Chapter Twenty Five: Wavewaking

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Magic is not a practice. It is a living, breathing web of energy that, with our permission, can encase our every action." _-Dorothy Morrison_

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Chapter Twenty-Five: Wavewaking

Water lapped at Traveler's feet, and he tried to gape like a country bumpkin.

"Wow," he breathed, awestruck. At his side, Guide smiled.

"It is rather impressive, isn't it?"

"I've never seen so much water," Traveler said. And he hadn't. The Land of Water was a thin stripe of gray, pebbly beach, and then ocean.

Vast, glasslike sheets of water stretched as far as the eye could see, from end to end, glimmering pale gold and blue under the dark sky.

It was amazing.

"_This _is the Land of Water?"

Guide nodded solemnly. "A part of it," he said. "The Land of Water is bigger than the Gray Lands and the Land of Blood. This part is what you must cross, to continue your journey. We shall not go any deeper; no need to wander into the dead's waters."

"Oh," Traveler said, trying not to sound disappointed. He really wanted to explore the water-bound land—he loved exploring, and learning.

As soon as he had that revelation, Traveler seized it and added it to the flask. It mingled, multicolored, with the other fragments of memory.

_One piece closer to who I am. _

"Very good," Guide said approvingly. "Now come. We cannot linger here."

Obediently, Traveler followed his companion, the gray pebbly sand crunching under his boots.

They walked in comfortable silence for many hours along the bland beach and the smooth sheets of water, quiet and contemplative even though Traveler was _dying _to ask Guide questions.

Eventually, the came upon two wooden boats bobbing gently in the water, disrupting it with tiny ripples.

"Here," said Guide, stepping into one of the small boats. "Come, come, step in to the other." He gestured at the empty boat.

Suddenly leery of the water, Traveler reluctantly climbed into the boat, wincing as it rocked. The water rustled softly.

Once he was settled, Guide folded his hands serenely, and the boats began to move, cleaving through the still ocean.

Traveler watched in awe and a little discomfort as the boat slipped smoothly through the gleaming water, picking up speed.

The shore and Lands they had already journeyed through dwindled behind them, and soon there was only water on all sides, flashing and rippling around the pair.

The dry air made Traveler thirtsy, so he reached down (very carefully, the water made him nervous), intending to scoop some water into his mouth to cool the thirst.

"No!" Guide warned, and Traveler's boat stopped sharply, nearly unseating him.

Traveler started, and pulled his hand back.

"You mustn't drink the water," Guide said sternly. "No matter how thirsty you are, you cannot drink it. The River feeds everything here, even the oceans."

Traveler nodded, seeing now that the water had the same sickly sheen that the river flowing through the Gray Lands had, and tried not to think about the thirst drying his throat. He frowned, suddenly noticing that, while his boat was stopped, Guide's was still moving.

The Traveler waited patiently for his own boat to move again and catch up with Guide's, but it didn't.

"Wait!" he called to Guide. "My boat's not moving!"

"Then your task is to move it!" Guide shouted back. "As you remembered to keep walking, and to fight, you must remember how to move the boat!"

He was getting farther away.

"Don't leave me!" Traveler cried, suddenly, terribly afraid.

"Peace, young one," Guide called, affectionate. "You will not be alone for long! I shall meet you on the shore, my friend."

And then his boat was pulled away, out of sight.

Traveler was alone.

_No, _he thought, staring at the water. _No, don't let me die here!_

(_falling, water so much water, pain, lightning, water clogging his mouth his nose his eyes, pressing ever _down—)

_You're already dead, _whispered a dry, icy voice, as Traveler began to panic.

_Don't be afraid, _said another, warmer voice. In the distance, the water began to move and rise, sheeting up and rippling out, as though something large and strong was moving fast underneath it.

"Hello?" Traveler yelled.

_Speak to me here, like this, _the warm voice said gently. _I shall here you, Traveler. _

_Who are you?_

The voice laughed. _You may call me Friend, young Traveler, and I am to be your guide through the Land of Water. Guide sent me to aid you. _

_You'll move the boat? _

_No, _said Friend, _but I will help you remember how to move it. _

_Where are you? _Traveler didn't see any beings at all, only water and the rippling, surging force coming nearer and nearer with the sound of rushing waves.

The moving water abruptly vanished, and then something nudged Traveler's boat hard enough to rock it.

He yelped, startled.

_Look in the water, _said Friend.

Traveler did, and nearly choked in surprise.

An enormous fish, easily three times as long as Traveler, circled the boat lazily, its body stirring the water. Its scales flashed a shimmering black, shining blue, green, silver, and purple like a raven's feathers.

Fins like wings, elegant, fine, slid smoothly through the sparkling water, and two bright, vaguely familiar amber eyes peered up at Traveler.

_Hello, _the fish said.

Traveler gaped. _You're Friend?_

_Does that surprise you?_

_A little, _Traveler muttered, and the fish chuckled.

_There are many strange and wonderous things in these realms, _he laughed. _You will doubtless find stranger beings than me. _

_Did you die as a fish?_

_No, _Friend said, circling, circling. _Now, young Traveler, what must you learn to continue your journey?_

_Guide said I have to move this boat, _said Traveler, and some of his earlier panic returned. _I have to find Guide, I don't want him to leave me, I want to get out of here—_

_Very well, _Friend soothed, swimming in his broad circles. _Try to relax. Guide will not leave you. He has sworn to lead you until your journey's end, and I have known him for many centuries. He has yet to go back on his word. _

Traveler forced himself to calm down a little.

_Now, _Friend murmured, _how to move this boat?_

_I don't have any oars, and I can't touch the water. _

_I suppose not. The Lord of these Lands would very much like to keep you here, after all. How did the boat move before?_

Traveler thought for a moment, brows furrowed. _Before, it just… moved on its own._

_I thought so. _The fish continued swimming in endless, lazy circles. _An interesting problem, then. _

Traveler watched his new friend anxiously.

_Well, _said Friend, after some time. _Perhaps you should meditate. _

_Meditate? _Traveler couldn't help but sound doubtful.

_Aye, _Friend murmured. _It has always helped me. You know how, yes?_

Traveler thought about it, and was startled to realize that yes, he did know how to meditate. _That sounds… familiar. _

_Try it, then. _

Traveler settled down in his boat, breathing and listening to the water rippling in Friend's circular wake. He tried to clear his mind, force it to settle.

At first, he was too distracted. Fear and thirst prickled in his throat and chest, and he couldn't block out the tingling in his limbs, or the creak of wooden timbers.

But Friend circled the boat, creating a soothing water sound. _Track my energy, _the fish suggested. _Feel me, in your mind. _

Traveler reached out, feeling out the mental connection that allowed him to speak with the fish, and to his surprise felt _power—_

(_life death energy, trees blooming from song, fire bursting from breath, wind groaning, wood snapping, objects lifting and moving without hands touching them—_)

—circling around him. It was Friend!

_Excellent! Now follow my energy, _he said. _ Follow me…_

And Traveler did, closing his eyes and letting his companion's energy circle him, around and around…

Around and around…

Gradually, Traveler fell away. His fear faded, his thirst ebbed, and a hundred shouting thoughts quieted and fell asleep.

There was only Friend's energy, circling around and around…

And then, different energy, hot, singing, _familiar, _bubbling up inside Traveler—

_There you go! _Friend shouted, and Traveler's heart laughed as he came back down to himself, holding the bubbling, surging power in his chest.

_Magic, _Traveler said, awed, and felt it beat in him like a heart. _This is magic, isn't it?_

He remembered magic. He didn't know where it came from, or who had taught him to wield it, but he _knew _magic. It was his tool, and with words he commanded it, and he knew those words.

Friend broke his elegant circles and leaped clear out of the water, scales flashing, to land on the other side of the boat with a tremendous, joyous smash.

Traveler whooped, letting the power—_magic—_build and build, until his very being sang with it.

_I am a magician, _he thought, marveling.

_Aye, _said Friend. _Now, magician, use your magic. Move the boat. _

Traveler grinned fiercely and reached for his again-found magic, letting streams of it slip through his fingers in torrents.

"Move," he commanded, in a language he knew but was not born knowing, and the boat lurched forward suddenly, pushed by the magic.

Traveler laughed and laughed, and Friend leaped in and out of the water as the boat picked up speed, guided by the Traveler's strength.

_I did it! _he shouted joyfully.

Quickly, before he could forget, Traveler took his new knowledge and added it to Guide's flask. The memories inside pulsed magic-white, and swelled tremendously.

Friend laughed with Traveler, and together they sped through the Land of Water, carried by Traveler's woken waves.

Soon—in no time at all, it felt like—there was a shoreline, less gray than before, and Guide stood on it, a smile crinkling his face.

Traveler's boat hit the shore with a thud and he staggered out, and Guide smiled.

"You see?" he said gently. "I knew you could do it."

Traveler beamed at him.

"So you know that you are a magician," Guide said, and lit a flame in his palm.

Traveler stared at the flame. "_Brisingr," _he whispered, and an identical flame shivered in his own hand, above a silvery scar he'd never noticed before. He blinked at it, fascinated.

"Very good," Guide hummed. "We are getting closer. Come. Now that you have learned what the Water Land could teach you, it is time to move on."

"Which Land is next?"

"My own home," Guide said. "The Land of Forests."

Eager to continue his learning, Traveler turned out to the shimmering water and waved, shouting to Friend.

_Good bye! Thank you!_

_I will see you again, young Traveler! _Friend called, as War had. _Do not forget what you have learned!_

_I won't, _Traveler swore, and then turned and faced the beach, where the sand gradually changed from gray to pale, gleaming yellow.

Guide smiled. "Come," he said, and Traveler did.

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**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	27. Chapter Twenty Six: Shatter dream

**Saphira's POV, very short. I tried.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Dreams feel real when we're in them. It's only when we wake up that we realize something was strange." –_Dominck Cobb, _Inception

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Chapter Twenty-Six: Shatter-dream

Saphira Brightscales was not alive. Living was loving, was hunt-fly-fight-love-kill-die, and she was not flying, or fighting, or hunting, or loving the partner-of-her-heart.

No, Saphira Brightscales was not alive, for her Eragon was dead-drowned-gone. Her mind gaped, her heart bled, her soul littered the floor of a gleaming cage.

She was not alive.

But she wasn't dead, either, so she dreamed, and in those dreams she was not Saphira-Eragon's-dragon, she was Saphira-the-other, the Saphira-who-could-have-been, who did not hurt, or mourn, or have a dead Rider. She dreamed, and in her dreams, her Riders were alive.

All around her, other creatures crept, circling her cage. Some were cruel—Tresia the Halfling, and her Rider Tariku—and taunted her, calling Eragon's name and laughing over his death.

Tariku, who had fought with Eragon, holding back from Murtagh's aid, wore the belt of Beloth the Wise, which he had cut from Eragon in their duel.

If she had been awake enough to see that belt, so often around her Rider's waist, she would have raged-fought-killed, ripped Tariku and his brood down.

But she was not awake, so it didn't matter.

Her mind bled. She no longer had shields—she was not awake to need them, so the Halflings and their twisted Riders sometimes tore through her thoughts, peeling back memory, shredding thought and feeling.

But Saphira did not care. She did not need memory-thought-feeling.

She was not alive.

Shruikan-of-the-black-scales, Galbatorix's slave, his steed, protected her from this. Perhaps he, in his half-melted-shattered-mind, felt empathy, for he too had lost-his-heart. He chased away the Halflings, and curled against her cage, his mind-thought-pain wrapped around hers.

Together they were a wall, nearly impenetrable, all fang-claw-scale, sharp and bristling and hard.

Saphira might have appreciated his unexpected kindness, or scorned it, had she been awake.

But she was not, so it did not matter.

Shruikan wrapped his mind around hers, and together, they weathered a storm.

There was another dragon-traitor-slave too, a young one, with gleaming purple scales. Saphira had once known her Rider—Elva-the-witch-child, of-the-purple-eyes, who Saphira herself had dragonmarked, in a moment of youthful arrogance.

Elva and her dragon prowled the edges, feeling Saphira's pain, drinking it, but Eragon's spell-curse-calling was broken; Elva did not need to protect, not any more. She could sense coming agony, and feel it, but she didn't have to help.

Now, she could just _watch. _

Shruikan did not like the purple dragon, who grew and grew every day, like a normal hatchling, even though she _wasn't. _The dragon-of-purple-scales was born from an already-dead, and Eldunarí reanimated through the cruelest of means.

_Abomination, _Shruikan hissed, and if Saphira had been awake, she would have laughed.

They were all abominations.

All of them, every dragon and Halfling and Rider.

And even the King, who Saphira would have fought-killed-ripped-apart, because _he killed her Eragon—_

But Saphira was not alive.

She was a wraith-shadow, and the worst of it was that Galbatorix was not cruel to her. He did not taunt her, or torment her, or disturb her in anyway. If she had been awake, and alive, and not lost in the haze of _gone-he's-gone-my-Eragon-is-_gone, she would've growled and snapped and _fought, _but she wasn't awake, and the King wasn't cruel.

He did not hurt Saphira. The King-murderer-traitor visited everyday, to clean the cage, mend her wounds, chase the Halfling-monsters away. He talked to her, and fixed what the Halflings had broken in her mind. He comforted her, and didn't hurt-insult-twist her. He did not demand allegiance, or try to break her already-shattered bonds to those who still lived. He only caged her, and filled her mind with dreams, and let her sleep.

_Saphora is the Queen of the Dragons, and her brood gambols happily in the sun around her, their scales sparkling in the sunlight. _

_Eragon trains the younger Riders, guiding them patiently, gently, and the dragonlings roar and fly and loop above her. _

_She sighs happily, completely and utterly content, letting the warmth of the sun relax her taut muscles. She does not hurt, not here. _

_Shruikan-of-the-black-scales, her mate these many long years, dozes nearby, his newest son asleep on his snout. She blinks at them fondly, and wonders when the other eggs will hatch. _

_Teirm is beautiful this time of year, warm-hot-baking, and the trees are fully leaved and the prey is running. _

_She stands, shakes dust-dirt-sleep from her scales, and vaults into the air, letting the wind-from-the-sea carry her above the city. _

_It is calm below, and she can see humans and dwarves and elves alike kneel before her shadow, offering their food high. _

_Perhaps later she'll take it from them—as is her right, as Dragon-Queen, hunt-leader—but for now she flies on. _

_Peace. _

_There is peace in Alagaesia. _

_She has a mate, and offspring. _

_Her race will continue. _

_Her Rider is alive. _

_And Saphira Brightscales circles back down, landing hard beside the partner-of-her-heart, and hums when he throws his arms around his neck. _

_She loves him. _

_She closes her eyes, warm in the sun, and under her Rider's weight. _

Sleep, my dear, _says the King, who has made this whole world possible. _Sleep, and your Eragon is with you.

_She does, and does not wake._

* * *

**Haaaaaaaaaate it. **

**Ah, well. **

**~WSS**


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven: The Winter Trees

**Lots of Traveler!POV today. I don't even know.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. **

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"People who will not sustain trees will soon live in a world which cannot sustain people." -_Bryce Nelson_

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Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Winter Trees

Traveler and Guide walked on the beach for many days, as the sand slowly shifted gray to yellow to brown, stone to sand to dirt.

After a while, when thirst was starting to burn in Traveler's throat and he was bored of flicking a flame on and off with his rediscovered magical powers, he began to long for rest, and a cool drink, but Guide would not let him stop or rest.

They talked for hours instead, keeping themselves occupied as they walked, discussing everything and anything they could think of. Through their conversations, Traveler learned more fragments about himself; he had brown hair, and a scar on his palm that Guide respected, and he knew just where to scratch a passing dragon's chin.

(Guide had laughed for a long time after that.)

He had a memory of a white raven, he loved potatoes, and his sword in life had either been red or blue.

All of these scraps went into the enchanted (for that's what it was, enchanted) flask for safe-keeping. It was very nearly halfway full now, and every time Traveler looked at it excitement grew in his chest.

"There!" Guide said, after a long time of silence. He pointed into the distance.

And sure enough, ancient, cracked trees, far older than anything Traveler had ever seen, stood planted firmly in the earth. Their branches, all bare, scratched the sunless sky. Through them, Traveler saw the faint silvery glow of the River, as Guide called it, and his heart sank.

He had thought they were past it, by now.

But these trees weren't the cold, lifeless silver of the Gray Lands; though they were barren, their barks were rich, full colors, from deep mahogany to burnished ash.

"This is my home," Guide said, smiling. "I live farther in, among the Autumn Trees, but since my death, I have lived in the Forest Land."

"Will I see them? The Autumn Trees, I mean."

"Not this time. Perhaps on your next visit to the realms, but for now, we are going through the Winter Trees, and towards the Spring Trees. The border with the Land of Fire is there."

Traveler nodded, eager to see Guide's resting place. His own, the Gray Lands, had been lifeless, still, freezing existences, and it looked like Guide's place was livelier.

"Why are these Winter Trees?"

"They are trees that died during the winter time, in the living world," Guide explained.

"Trees come to the Lands of the Dead too?"

"Oh yes," said Guide. "All souls come to these realms."

"Trees have souls?"

Guide chuckled. "You are not an elf," he said, "so it is no doubt difficult for you to understand. But yes, trees have souls, as men, elves, dragons, dwarves, and even Urgals do."

"How?"

Guide shrugged. "You will have to ask a forest spirit. The story of tree-souls was lost long before I was born."

Traveler nodded, eyeing the trees with a new, wary respect. These were ancient, battle-scarred beings, tall, mighty and proud. Some had scars, where they had been cut to make firewood. Others were crisped at the edges, and others still had insect-wounds, but all were healthy and whole again, silent, watchful guardians over the Land of the Forest.

"Hello!" a lilting, terribly familiar voice sang out, and echoed off the trees.

"Hello!" called another, deeper, male, and Guide smiled.

"Hello, my friends," he cried back. "Where are you? We cannot see you among the trees."

The first voice laughed, and it sounded like birdsong. "We are here."

Traveler watched, fascinated, as two people, one human, one elf, came loping from the wintery trees. The elf was male, handsome, and kindness and mischief were stamped into his slanted features. The human was a woman, and she was so beautiful the Traveler felt his heart hurt. She smiled when she saw him, and waved.

"My friends," Guide said warmly, clasping each one's arm. "This is Traveler."

"Ah, yes," said the elf, stepping forward and clapping Traveler on the back firmly. "Greetings, Traveler. You may call me Courage."

"And you may call me Sacrifice," the woman added, her eyes sparkling. She stepped forward to shake Traveler's hand.

"Hello," he said to them politely, though his eyes never left Sacrifice's face. He felt like he knew her from somewhere, more so than he had known any of his other guides, or anything he had seen so far in Death's world.

"We are here to take you through Forest Land," Courage said. He nodded to Sacrifice, and she nodded back, and then turned and walked away.

_Wait! _Traveler wanted to cry, but held his tongue.

"Come," Courage called, and Guide nodded encouragingly. "I will teach you the secrets of the Winter Trees."

Together the three set off, and though Traveler couldn't help but look around for Sacrifice, he was intrigued by Courage. The elf carried himself easily, less stiffly than the proud, noble Guide, and genuine love and joy flashed in Courage's sparkling green eyes.

"You have come very far," Courage said, clapping Traveler on the back again. "Good man. You've come much farther than some thought you would."

"Some?"

Courage shrugged. "The inhabitants of this place. Most would not go so far. Most don't even leave their Lands, usually."

""tis the order of things," Guide said. "We find our places of rest and stay there."

"You didn't," Traveler pointed out, confused now. "You've been as far as I have."

"A man I greatly respect asked me to aid you," Guide explained. "And so I offered him my services. I do not go back on my word."

"Friend said that," Traveler murmured, thinking of his previous guide.

"Friend?"

"A giant fish."

Courage burst out laughing. "He would," he said. "He would."

More confused than ever, Traveler just watched the two elves.

"Anyway," Courage pressed on, once he stopped giggling. "You have come very far. You only have a few Lands left, before your destination."

Traveler brightened. "Good."

"Yes. Excellent. Now, I assume that, through each Land you've passed, you've learned something about yourself?"

"Yes," Traveler assured him. "I have learned not to give up, and that I was—am—a warrior and a magician. And a bunch of other fragments besides."

Guide nodded, confirming.

"Good," Courage smiled. "The Land of the Forest is never quite as straightforward in its lessons, unfortunately. What you learn here you may not know at once. It might come to you later, when you need it most, or never at all, but you _will _learn here."

"There's no test I have to pass, then?"

Courage grinned. "Oh, I didn't say that. Us Forest folk might not teach straightforward lessons, like your friends in the Land of Blood, or Master Fish, but we do teach lessons."

Traveler smiled. "I like learning."

"Glad to hear it, man. Now come on! Sacrifice will get bored waiting for us." Courage began to run, swiftly, and Guide matched his pace.

Traveler followed them, running through the ancient trees, and marveled at his speed and the beauty around him.

"So trees have souls?" he asked, after a time. He didn't need to breathe, so he wasn't winded. None of the other two were winded either, so they could converse with him freely.

"Aye," Courage said, looking at Guide askance. "Not all plants, understand, but trees."

"Why trees?"

"I do not know the story," Guide added. "So I could not explain earlier."

"Fortunately for you, I do," Courage said with a grin. "According to ancient elf legend, there was once only one Tree in the world, and it tethered the earth to the sky, so we did not plummet into the abyss and perish.

"All beings worshipped this Tree, because it was the only way they could live. For many millennia, this Tree remained revered and unharmed.

"And then a war amongst the god-siblings broke out, and the result was the creation of Death. And Death was furious at being forced to watch over the dead forever, and so he sought to destroy life in one fell swoop, so he did not have to collect each soul as it fell.

"Death tried many ways to end life. He released a red wolf to sow war. He released a black dog to spread hunger. He himself, riding a pale, gray horse, rode through the lands reaping the effects of his war and his famine.

"But it was not enough. Life was tenacious, and he could not kill it all at once. And so Death came to think that the ancient Tree was the way to end the world. He thought that, if the earth or sky was separated from the Tree, the world would drop into the abyss and cease to exist.

"He did not dare enter the sky, his Father's domain, and separate the Tree from there. He figured that if the roots were gnawed through, then the world would drop and he would not have to collect anymore souls every again."

Courage paused, slowing his pace a little.

"To do this, Death visited an angry young dragon, called Khorne, or the White One, and convinced him to go and work on the roots of the Tree. Death promised that, if Khorne did this for him, he would never die, and be granted a spot among the gods.

"Eager to win this coveted immortality (for the dragons were dying left and right) Khorne sought out the Tree and began to work on its roots, chewing and burning and ripping at them. He destroyed several roots before he was caught, by a young elf whose name has been forgotten. The elf-woman dueled Khorne, and nearly slew him.

"Death, determined to preserve his servant, grabbed Khorne and threw him into the sky, where he remains to this day, fighting the Black One, who brings harmony, for the White One is only chaos.

"Now the young elf saw that the Tree was damaged, and soon its hold on the earth would slip, and they would all perish. To prevent this, she began to sing healing songs, and from the torn earth trees were born.

"The elf-woman continued to sing until there were enough trees to hold onto the sky and the earth, and in doing so, she sang a bit of her soul into each tree.

"She died, for Death was furious with her, but his plan was forever ruined because there were simply too many trees to destroy. And each tree had a soul, for the elf-woman gave herself gladly, and so when those trees died, they too joined the Lands of the Dead, forever reminding Death of his failure."

The Traveler stared, awed, up at the great trees. To think that they had souls!

"The elf-woman sacrificed herself," he murmured, contemplative. He thought of Sacrifice the woman, who was so beautiful and familiar, and of the aches of his own heart.

"Aye," Courage nodded. "She did. Our history is littered with sacrifice, you see. It is important to have the courage to protect others, and sacrifice is the highest form of love, and honor, one can give."

Guide nodded sagely.

"I think," Traveler began, uncertainly. His chest ached, and sang, and he felt the trees singing with him. "I think I might have…"

But he didn't finish, because he didn't know.

Courage's eyes were understanding. "Come," he said, picking up speed once more. "We have little time, young Traveler."

And the group ran on, through the ancient trees, and Traveler couldn't help but look at each one of them and wonder who had died to give them life.

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**I'm not going to buy _Inheritance _until I'm done with Edoc'sil, so no spoilers, please XD**

**~WSS**


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight: Steel and Iron

**Wow, so sorry for the wait. :( My life recently has basically been ohgodschool. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle in any way, shape, or form. **

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Chapter Twenty-Eight: Steel and Iron

"C'mon, Sloansson, I thought ye knew what ye were doing!" Derek lunged forward, his dull practice sword whistling past Roran's side, and he swore, turning and trying desperately to stop the blade with his own.

Metal crashed together and the force jarred his wound; he gasped in pain, vision blurring, and staggered back, trying to put some room between himself and the gleeful Captain.

_He's insane! _Roran thought wildly, leaning into another teeth-shaking parry.

Pain shot up his shoulder, and the Hound's bite burned.

"C'mon," Derek taunted, lashing out again, and again. "Ye said ye knew swordplay, boy. Show it to me! Half-trained pages could fight better than ye!"

Roran growled, and pushed back, his practice sword clattering off Derek's loudly as they dove and struck, wove and parried.

Sweat dripped down the general's spine, despite the winter cold.

The Captain and the general circled each other and interested soldiers ringed around them, hooting and calling encouragement, betting on who would win; their Captain, or the man who killed the Hound.

They didn't call Roran Hound-killer, of course. Derek was adamant that the beast Roran killed was merely one of the King's experiments. He refused to believe it was supernatural at all.

Roran could understand that. In the north, people weren't as religious as they used to be. A hundred years of war and starvation, struggling to survive against Urgal raids and the King's ruthless tax collectors did that to a person.

Hell, if it hadn't been for Brom the Storyteller (and Dragon Rider, and Eragon's father—Roran still could barely come to terms with that one) speaking the old legends, the knowledge of Hounds and the Gray Man and other fantastical tales would have died out entirely.

And Therinsford didn't have a storyteller. Most places didn't. Storytelling was a dying profession, these days. It rarely put bread on the table, and in the mouths of young ones. No, soldiering was only the truly profitable trade now.

The Empire's men whooped and cheered as Roran and the Captain struggled on.

Wood clattered, and Roran's muscles burned, and the bite throbbed.

He could not beat this man.

Derek, looking across their locked weapons, grinned. He knew it, the smug bastard.

Roran snarled thinly, bloodlust surging underneath his skin, but he fought it down. He could not win against Derek, no matter how angry he was, not in this condition.

His wound was still not fully healed, and he couldn't fight Captain Derek on equal footing, not without his full strength.

Roran stepped back, breaking the deadlock, and allowed the Captain to land a blow across his wrist. There wasn't enough force to break the little, delicate bones there, but there was enough force and stinging pain to convince Roran to let go of the sword.

The wooden blade fell, and Derek dropped his own weapon, eyes gleaming.

Groans went up among the gathered soldiers, and Roran cradled his bruised arm to his chest, grinning ruefully.

Derek laughed. "Yer a good fighter," he said. "Not quite up to Red Guard standards yet, with a blade anyway, but ye know what yer doin', I'll give ye that."

The rest of the soldiers rumbled in agreement, nodding approvingly.

Derek clapped Roran on his shoulder, and the sudden, stinging pain made the bearded man wince.

"Can't wait to see what ye can do with a hammer," he sang, and then wandered away, spinning the wooden sword idly in his grasp.

Roran watched him go warily, and saw Jensen nod to him from across the camp.

He looked away. It had been a week since Jensen convinced him to try and turn the Empire to his cause, and Roran still wasn't comfortable with the other man.

He didn't _want _to turn the Empire to his cause. He wanted to heal up, and find his wife, and go back to the Varden before they declared him traitor.

At least he'd been able to get a letter to Nasuada off.

Jensen knew some herb-gatherers, who also gathered for the Varden's healers, and he'd taken Roran's hastily written letter to them, so it could be passed on. Hopefully, Nasuada would have it before long, and she's understand.

_I am alive, _Roran had written. _I'm wounded, and with the Empire, but I am alive. I left the Varden to look for my wife—she left her safe place, and I can't lose her, not after Eragon. The Empire doesn't know who I am. I will try and write you again. Do not try and rescue me. I will die before I am turned. _

_R.S. _

Lady Nasuada would understand. She wouldn't be happy about it, and Roran expected to be exiled from the Varden, upon his return, but at least she wouldn't risk good men's lives mounting a rescue.

And it would be easy for Roran to leave, once his damn shoulder stopped throbbing. He'd collected Trumpet a few days ago, and the black horse had been simply overjoyed to see him again. Trumpet was currently stabled with the other Red Guard horses, sucking down as much food as he could find and occasionally bugling to his rider, stamping his massive feet until Roran came to reassure him that yes, he was alive.

They could leave easily.

Under the cover of night, it wouldn't be hard to grab Trumpet and just start riding. Within a few days, the frequent snows would cover his tracks, and Roran would be gone. He could find Katrina and return to the Varden.

Except he had no idea where Katrina was. She'd been traveling for several months now, since before Eragon's death; there was simply no telling where she was in the vastness of Alagaesia, aside from the vague tug of Eragon's enchanted ring.

Even that didn't tell Roran where she was, only her general direction.

He wished he knew where she was, so he could send a message, convince her to go back, or at least wait for him.

_And she's pregnant, _Roran thought. _With _my _child. _Roran was a northerner; if there was one thing he knew, it was the dangers of winter. Winter killed. During winter, food and supplies were scarce. Marked pathways vanished under the snow. Cold, like swords, crept in and killed while travelers slept. Wolves and other hungry predators (_and maybe even Hounds, now_) preyed on the unwary.

_And a pregnant woman, traveling alone? _

Roran couldn't bear to think about it. He'd drive himself mad.

And he himself could die, or miss Katrina, wandering aimlessly in the snows, and that wouldn't save anyone.

_Besides, _whispered a tiny voice inside his mind. _You want to save these people. You want them on your side. _

And maybe he did. They were just men, as Jensen had said, struggling to find a life for themselves and their families in a world where Galbatorix was slowly choking the lives out of all other professions.

He _understood _them.

As Captain Derek walked away, the Red Guard surged around Roran, laughing.

"That was some good work, Sloansson," one said, chuckling. "I ain't seen anyone go after Captain like that in a long time."

"Don't be mad about losing," another added. "Nobody beats the Captain."

"What's 'e like, the Cap?" Roran asked, seizing the chance to know more about the man he was going to try and sway to his side.

Instantly, the general good cheer of the soldiers vanished, and some shifted from foot to foot, clearly nervous.

"Don' tell m' if it'll getcha in trouble," he added hastily, quick to put himself in a curious, but sympathetic role.

Some of the soldiers relaxed, but the first who had spoken, a man a little older than Roran, chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"First," he said, "don't call him Cap. Nobody calls him Cap. It's Captain, or Derek if you know him well. No one does."

"So 'e's a stern type?"

The soldier shrugged. "Usually. Likes things in order, does our Captain. He's a military man through and through. He wants the Red Guard—us—to be the best fighting force the Empire has, and he'll stop at nothing to get us there."

"But 'e's a good man?"

Again the soldier shrugged. "A good soldier."

"Aren' they th' same?"

The solider grinned. "If you think so, Sloansson, you're in for a shock. Captain Derek's isn't a good man, by anyone's standards. He doesn't care about our lives, or our families. He sees only obstacles, and the means to break those obstacles, and ain't nothing going to get in his way. He's a good _solider, _an excellent one. But a good man?"

The rest of the soldiers looked away uncomfortably, eyes scanning for their Captain.

He did not magically reappear, and gradually, they relaxed. Roran turned what he had learned over and over in his mind.

So Captain Derek was not a good man. He was a stern taskmaster, and a military general in the extreme. He didn't see his men, the people who depended on his leadership and judgment, as people, only tools.

They were loyal, Roran could see, because they were afraid. They didn't want to die. They fought and trained so that they _didn't _die, when they went to battle.

He could use that.

He would not, however, be taking Derek with him, when he tried to take the Red Guard to the Varden.

He didn't need a man like that.

But the rest of the Red Guard…

"I though' the Empire cared more f'r it's soldiers," he said, feigning confusion. "Tha's what th' recruiters always said, back in Y'zuac."

Grumblings rippled among the men.

"Once," said the second soldier, shaking his head. "I've been in the army for nearly fifteen years, and back then, the Empire treated us right. We got good pay, and our commanders kept us safe."

"What changed?"

Both soldiers shrugged.

"The war, I guess. All of a sudden we're not fighting Urgal armies, or little pockets of rebellion, we're fighting whole nations. The elves, the dwarves, our own."

The second soldier spat derisively. "Even our King's not on our side, not anymore. He turns things like the Painless Ones and those Halflings loose on us. The Halflings eat our food and horses, and a pack of the Painless wiped out a regiment last week, y'know? Because they were _bored. _This is what our King does for us."

Roran blinked. Galbatorix was destroying the faith of his own soldiers! How did he expect them to fight for him, when the Varden came to Uru'baen?

"Painless Ones?"

"Aye," said the first soldier, elbowing the second warningly. "Men, once, who were spelled to feel no pain. The thing is, though, they ain't feeling much of anything else, either. They don't hurt, but they don't love, or rage, or mourn, either. They just laugh, and kill whoever they please, because no one can do anything to them."

Roran shuddered, figuring it was appropriate. He hated the Painless Ones. He'd first fought them back in Surda, and then again in Feinster. They were not a force he wanted to go up against.

"Everything was fine, before the Varden," a third soldier muttered. "We were all fine before they showed up."

Roran frowned.

"Aye," agreed the first soldier. "Before it was little fights. Some of us died, sure, but not whole Guards. We lost most of the Black Guard at Feinster, did you know? And all of the Blue on the Burning Plains, and nearly half the Green at Belatona. _Thousands _of men, just gone. Massacres, all of them."

"No," Roran said, before he could himself. Every soldier turned to stare. _Shit. _

"I've seen massacres," he continued. "M' whole village was _massacred. _They didn' fight back. At least your fellows could. Tha's _not _a massacre."

To his surprise, most of the men looked sympathetic.

"Didn't mean to offend you there, mate," the first soldier said. He offered his hand. "I'm Jared, Jared Heransson. Swordsman."

Roran shook his hand warily.

"Tak," said the second. "Archer."

"Saulam," added the third. "But call me Saul. Everyone does."

Roran suddenly found himself shaking hands as names were pressed on him, questions hurled as his head. The sudden change in mood from the somber discussion before nearly threw him off. Several times he almost gave his name as Roran, and he heard his already shaky Yazuac accent slip.

The men crowded around him, asking questions about his life in Yazuac, and then after it was destroyed. They were kind about it, but clearly no strangers to suffering; they did not act pitying or overly sympathetic. They acted like they understood loss, and Roran could respect that.

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Jensen finally shouted, pushing his way through the crowd of soldiers. "Let the man breathe, damn it. He's still injured."

"I'm fine," Roran said loudly, mostly for bravado. It worked, because the soldiers roared with laughter and jostled the healer fondly.

"Hear that, Jensen? This one here's a _real _man."

"Oh, aye, he's tough enough until he gets woundrot and I have to cut off his arm," the healer muttered back.

Roran grinned. "Really," he said, quieter. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I saw you favoring your shoulder during the fight."

"It's sore," Roran admitted, "but I'll be fine."

The healer snorted, throwing up his hands. "Very well. Make sure you stop by the tent before you go to sleep, so I can check and be sure."

"I will," Roran promised, and watched the healer walk away, shaking his head.

"He likes you," Jared said, chuckling. "Usually he doesn't threaten us with woundrot until he's known us for a few months."

Roran raised an eyebrow. "That means he likes you?"

"Oh, yeah, it means he cares about your wellbeing. Usually, he just stays out of our way, so he doesn't have to watch us undo all his hard work and bash each other to pieces."

Another chuckle raced around the group. So Jared was a sort of leader, then, clearly much better liked than Derek.

Roran filed that information away.

"You're a swordsman, right?" he asked.

Jared nodded.

Roran grinned. "Would you spar with me?"

Jared laughed, long and deep. "Haven't you had enough for today? You looked like you couldn't swing a sword anymore."

The general's grin widened. "'m not talkin' 'bout swingin' a sword."

Whispers rippled through the gathered men.

"You're coming after me with your hammer?"

"Aye, if you'll allow it."

Jared rocked back on his heels thoughtfully. "You can control yourself? You're not gonna crush my chest or anything by accident?"

"No. 't might be a good idea t' wear leather armor, though."

Jared nodded. "Alright, Sloansson. Let's see what the Hound-killer can do, huh?"

The men, now talking excitedly again, led Roran back towards the training ground, slapping him on the back and making bets.

Roran quickly put on a heavy leather chestplate and arm guards, and rushed back to Jensen's tent, where his hammer lay amongst his meager belongings.

The healer arched an eyebrow. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

"Sparring."

"With your shoulder already strained?"

Roran shrugged, and winced.

Jensen glared.

"Look," the general said. "These men are all career soldiers, right? They're doing this to put money on the table and feed their families."

"Aye."

"So they're not going to be turned by idealistic dreams, like most of the Varden was. They're only going to fight with me if there's a reasonable chance the Varden will win, and they can take money back to their families."

Jensen looked thoughtful. "So what are you gaining by fighting them?"

"I'm showing them I can win. I lost against Derek, but I defeated a Hound, and they know that. If they see me fight and defeat Jared, their leader—"

"And also a talented swordsman," the healer added.

"—that I am who they think I am, a strong fighter who can defeat most opponents."

"And that helps your cause how?"

"They'll start trusting me," Roran explained. "They'll start seeing me as a truly powerful warrior, one who can lead them to victory, if they will be swayed to my side."

"Ah," Jensen murmured. "Interesting. So by defeating them, you are proving to them that you are the strongest warrior, and your side has the best chance of winning."

"Something like that."

Jensen sighed. "In that case, drink this." He pushed a foul-smelling concoction in front of the general.

Roran sniffed it. "What is it?"

"Medicine, to dull your pain. It will let you use your arm again, without feeling like it's on fire."

Roran nodded and gulped down the potion, wincing at the overly sweet taste. "When will it start to work?"

"Soon," Jensen said. "Now go. Don't keep the men waiting."

Roran nodded, picking up his hammer, and trotted back to the training ground, where most of the soldiers had gathered.

Jared stood in the middle, leaning on his sword, and his eyes flashed brightly when he saw Roran's hammer.

"You ready?"

Roran nodded, rolling his shoulders. He felt Jensen's medicine now, loosening the knot of pain in his shoulder. He hefted his hammer, testing the weight, and it felt good in his hand.

He smiled.

Jared did not wait to see if his opponent was alright, if he could handle himself, if he was in any pain. Jared allowed Roran to heft his weapon, and then he attacked, steel flashing, and Roran dove to the side.

The sword bounced off the hammer, showering sparks, and Roran felt the thrill of impact tear up his good arm. In his bad arm, he didn't feel anything, and he grinned.

Jared struck again, taking advantage of Roran's tiredness and his slight awkwardness with his hammer. He hadn't wielded it in a couple of weeks, and his last opponent had been a giant Hound, not a man; clearly, Roran needed to remember how to swing his own damn weapon.

Sparks flew and Jared struck again and again, eyes flashing. Roran ducked, mostly, though every once and a while he'd bat the blade aside with his hammer. If only he could trap the sword against something hard, he could break it. But pushing it aside was enough, for now, and the general soon fell into the familiar patterns of movement.

The sword whistled, dancing under Roran's arm to bite at the leather armor, and Roran sidestepped, lashing out at Jared's wrist.

A lesser fighter wouldn't have seen the strike coming, and the little bones in their hand and arm would have been crushed. Jared, though, saw the hammer fall and jerked his arm aside, sword flashing.

The men whooped and stomped, cheering Roran and Jared on equally. The general twirled his hammer, feeling battle-lust and delight bubbling in his chest, and grinned.

Jared, just as excited, grinned back, and they surged together again, hammer and sword bouncing off each other with heat and sound.

Roran was tired from his early fight with Captain Derek, but fresh from the effects of Jensen's potion. Jared seemed to realize that Roran's shoulder wasn't hurting him and stopped attacking it, aiming instead for his chest and sides, seeking to knock him off balance.

_It's not going to work, _Roran thought, and fearlessly ducked the whirling sword, getting in close. Jared swore and tried to back up, but the bearded man followed, staying as close as he could. In this short range, the swordsman's attacks were useless, but Roran's were not.

He jabbed, knocking the man back, and brought his hammer around fiercely, landing a crushing blow in Jared's ribs. Even under the thick leather armor, the other man coughed and stumbled, wincing.

The soldiers cheered and shouted, stamping their feet.

Jared recovered, gaining some ground back and delivering a biting blow to Roran's side.

Back and forth they struggled, sword against hammer, steel against iron, as the red Guard howled and stomped.

"You're much better with a hammer," Jared wheezed, respect shining through the furious competition in his eyes.

Roran smiled. "I do practice."

Seeing an opening in Jared's faltering steps, he lunged, batting aside the blade to land another blow to the man's ribs. Jared yelped, and drew back hastily, but the damage had been done. He wasn't fast enough to block Roran's next blow, which hit him hard in the shoulder.

Jared's blade dropped, and the Empire's man stood defenseless with a hammer at his throat. He smiled ruefully and raised his hands.

"You win, Sloansson. I surrender."

Some men cheered, others groaned, and they all pressed in to slap Roran's back and pat Jared's consolingly.

Roran smiled at his opponent, and offered his hand. "Please," he said. "Call me Cadoc."

* * *

**I'm working on two more chapters right now (Arya and Murtagh) so hopefully more to come soon!**

**~WSS**


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine: Beyond

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination." -Don Williams, Jr.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine: Beyond

The Halflings fell on them like wolves on deer, and fire rent the air.

Faolin howled, startled, and dropped under the attack, trying to get away from sharp claws and teeth.

Arya didn't hesitate; she drew Ophelia's sword and slashed at the dark scales above her. The green sword, still unfamiliar to her arm after a week of practicing with it, sliced, whistling, and missed the Halfling as Faolin rolled towards the desert.

_Barzul! Where did they come from? _Arya thought, startled. They'd been flying peacefully over the Hadarac, taking advantage of the cool night air. They'd heard nothing. They had seen nothing.

One second, she had been flying—_flying, _with _her _dragon, a true Rider, at last, _at last_—behind Thorn and Talon, following in their slipstream. The Hadarac desert lay still below them, and would soon end.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, two Halflings plunged down on them from the sky.

_Arya! _Faolin shouted, panic swirling in him, and he fell and fell.

_Fly! _she cried. _Fly!_

Faolin snapped his wings open, yelping at the burn, but jerked upwards nonetheless, steadying.

_He's too young for this, _Arya worried. Faolin was still a hatchling by dragon standards, too young yet to produce a flame. He was too small and inexperienced, and she couldn't see the Halflings to strike at them—

"_Letta!" _Raltin barked, and light flared, a brief, blinding starburst. Two Halflings, inky dark and long-toothed, shriek-roared in pain and reeled away.

"_Brisingr,_" Arya whispered, and green fire blistered after them.

The two Halflings dodged the fire and plunged into darkness again, their wingbeats lost among the dragons'.

_Land, _Murtagh instructed. Thorn roared, loosing a jet of sullen red fire that crackled and hissed. At the edge of the firelight, a shadow slipped away.

_And give them the height advantage? _Raltin spat, disbelieving. His dragon was almost invisible too.

_Murtagh's right, _Arya said, however grudgingly. _They will have the height advantage, but we will be able to hear them coming. _

_We'll be vulnerable, _Raltin insisted.

There was another shrieking roar and Thorn bellowed. The scent of dragon blood rose into the air.

_We're vulnerable _now, Murtagh growled, and Thorn dropped, still snarling in pain. Arya urged Faolin to do the same, and her young, frightened dragon fell quickly, landing with a thump.

_Stay up there, if you want, _Arya said. _Talon is dark enough to hide—fly up and see if you can attack from above. _

Raltin did so, and he and his dragon were soon lost.

Murtagh healed Thorn with a muttered spell, and the bigger dragon shifted closer to Faolin protectively. Arya resisted the urge to glare.

_Listen for them, _she said.

_I am. _

Up above, they could hear wings stirring, pushing their air down underneath them. Thorn spread his own deep red wings over Faolin, covering the smaller dragon protectively.

_I can smell them, _the crimson dragon growled.

_They're below us now, _Raltin reported. Arya couldn't see him in the sky, but she heard Talon's heavier wingbeats over the lighter Halflings, and bit back a curse.

_If he'd just come down here, _she thought darkly, and tightened her grip on Erisdar.

_There! _Murtagh shouted, hurling magic at a speeding shadow.

"Brisingr!" Green fire splattered off dark gray scales and the Halfling tumbled, howling, to crash into the sands. It writhed, and Faolin darted out from the shelter of Thorn's wings to leap at it.

"Faolin!"

_I can do this! _Arya's dragon cried, and lunged, teeth snapping, to bite deep into the downed beast's neck. The Halfling roared and reared back, still burning, to slash at Faolin. Without even pausing to think Arya charged, sword raised, and hacked at its legs and chest while the little green dragon clawed and savaged at its throat.

The half-Rider screamed a spell, knocking Arya back, and Faolin yelped and fought it, still ripping at the Halfling.

Blood flowed, and Arya clamored back to her feet, white-faced with pain and fear for her dragon.

_Faolin!_

_I'm fine!_

The young dragon's fangs flashed, and his sharp tail whistled. Arya leaped back into the fray, ducking whirling talons, to hack at the Halfling's exposed underbelly, wincing at the hot blood that sprayed her face.

The Halfling's struggles weakened and it collapsed, screaming, Faolin's death still fastened in its throat.

Its Rider tried to cry out, magic sparking at his fingertips. Arya didn't pause. She rammed Erisdar into his chest and twisted, and the magic in his hands died.

The Halfling gave one last, great kick, and then it too died, and Faolin roared in triumph.

_I did it! _He crowed. _I did it, Arya! _

Above them, Raltin and Talon harried the remaining Halfling, driving it down to where Murtagh and Thorn waited.

The crimson dragon reared, slashing with his massive paws, and the Halfling crashed into the ground, screaming.

Thorn leaped on it, and it and its Rider were dead in seconds.

The night was quiet again.

_Faolin, _Arya said, reaching for her dragon. He came, nosing her palm and the dragon-mark gently.

_I'm fine, _he assured her. He was limping a little, bleeding from a wound on his leg, and another on his neck.

_Don't do that to me again, _Arya scolded, healing his injuries. _You scared me half to death. _

_I had to prove that I could do it, _Faolin said fiercely. His emerald eyes glittered. _I had to prove that I could protect you, and deal with our enemies. Lore and Glaedr said this would be a hard journey, and we'd all have to help to survive. I wanted to help. _

Arya's eyes softened, and she hugged his neck. _You were amazing, _she said. _But you didn't have to prove anything. You're still a hatchling, Faolin. Thorn would have protected you. _

_I don't need protecting. _

Arya glared. _You are too young to know what you do and do not need, Faolin. You were brave, to attack the Halfling like that, but also foolish. Know your strengths and your weaknesses. Do not charge into battle because you feel you _must, _charge into battle because there is no peaceful solution, and you have the strength—and the common sense—to defeat your enemy. Do you understand?_

Faolin dropped his eyes, a growl building and dying in his throat, but Arya would not let him go without making her point perfectly clear.

_Yes, _he finally muttered, a little sullen.

She relaxed. _Good. You did very well, Faolin. Next time, though, please think before you charge in and panic your Rider. _

The young dragon brightened, nosing her again. _I promise. _

_Good. _

Talon landed with a thump not far away, still nearly invisible in the darkness. Murtagh stood from where he crouched by a slain half-Rider's head, and lit a werelight in his palm. His face was grim.

"I do not recognize them," he said. "They bear the King's own seal. Their orders," he waved a fistful of papers, "were to spy on the Varden directly. I could not read their thoughts, but I'm going to guess they saw us depart from Belatona and followed."

_Damn. _Arya frowned. "Have they been reporting our movements to Galbatorix?"

"Yes," the red Rider said darkly. "Otherwise they never would have followed us into the desert. He sent them after us, because we left the Varden and he doesn't know where we could be going."

"To the dwarves, perhaps?"

Murtagh shook his head. "Why? The dwarf armies are already gathered with the Varden. There are hardly any left in the Beors, and most of those are farmers and herders. Even the smiths have gone to war."

Arya nodded. "He will also figure out that we are not going to Du Weldenvarden, then. The elves are also up in arms. Very few, and none of use to us, remain."

"So, what, he knows where we're going?" Raltin said, kicking the Halfling's body.

"He knows we are headed east, at any rate. I doubt he knows why. To him, the east has always been a mysterious, even frightening place."

Arya leaned closer to the flame, interested despite herself. "He is afraid of the east?"

Murtagh shrugged. "He's never said so outright, but he certainly hasn't made any efforts to explore it. I don't think the Riders had much interest in it, really, and it's always been wild. He doesn't like wildness, and the only mysteries he wants to unravel are magical ones."

"Such as?"

The red Rider shrugged again. "I don't know this for sure," he said slowly, "but for a very long time, longer than any of us have been alive, even, he has been searching for a way to control the ancient language."

"_What?_"

Murtagh nodded. "I don't know how he thinks he can achieve total control over it, but he does. He's been looking for a long time."

"But he can't," Arya protested. "Magic doesn't work that way. One person can't control all of it. Look at the Gray Folk—and entire _people _tried to control it, and they were destroyed!"

"Galbatorix is insane," Murtagh said. "I don't know what he thinks he can and cannot do, I just know that he _wants _control over magic."

Troubled, Arya chewed her lip. "We can't waste time," she said. "We have to get to the end of all this, and soon, before Galbatorix can create more monsters, or unleash destruction on Alagaesia."

"Aye," Murtagh said. "He knows where we are now. He'll send more Halflings after us. The sooner we move, and get across the river into the east, the better."

Arya nodded and climbed back onto Faolin's back. Raltin kicked the Halfling one more time and did the same, settling back into his own saddle.

_Are you alright to fly? _Arya asked.

_Fine, _Faolin assured her. _Just fine. Let's go!_

Thorn took off, flying point again, the other dragons behind him. They left the Halfings dead, their blood cooling the sand, and Arya hoped that no other monsters lurked nearby. As long as none were close, they had a chance of reaching the river and getting across it without being caught.

If some Halflings were close by…

Arya tightened her grip on Erisdar. She wouldn't let them hurt Faolin.

Wind rushed around them, broken by Thorn's huge body, and the desert blurred below them. Soon, they saw grasses again, scrubland blooming from the sand and melting into fields, a cluster of trees here and there, some streams and small woodlands.

The sun began to rise in front of them, pointing the way, and they strained to hear screeching roars or narrow wings beating, but they heard nothing.

_I think we're safe, _Murtagh said, touching Arya's mind. _For now, at least. Should we stop and let the dragons rest?_

Arya dipped into Faolin's thoughts, feeling every wingbeat. His wings ached, but he could still fly. _No, _she said. _After we cross the river, yes. _

_That's half a day's flying, _Murtagh said. _More, if the wind turns against us. _

_If the wind turns against us, we'll stop. _

_Very well. _The red Rider withdrew and Arya hunched down on Faolin's back. She didn't want him to hurt himself, but she would gladly take his exhausted muscles over Halfling-inflicted wounds any day. They had a few hours to go, and then they could rest for a while.

_You can make it, _Arya encouraged, and Faolin nudged her mind.

_I know, _he said cheerfully. _This isn't hard! _

A smile tugged at the green Rider's lips and she scratched his scales, murmuring a spell to lighten herself and ease his burden.

They flew in silence, mostly enjoying the warmth of the rising sun and each other. As they traveled, Arya let her mind wander.

_So many stories, _she thought. Her head was alive with stories. The origin of the Gray Folk, the legends surrounding Death, the tale of Caspar, Galbatorix…

So much had happened in the last three months. Before Eragon's death, Arya 's head had never been full of stories. Elves encouraged storytelling, of course. They loved the tales of their heroes and retold them at every festival. But these stories, of Death and creation and sacrifice? The elves laughed at such stories.

Death couldn't exist. Beings died, of course, but a god of Death, who took the souls and hoarded them, and actively sought the destruction of the world?

_Ridiculous, _said a voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother's. _Children's stories. _

_But I must believe them, _Arya said back. _I have to believe in them, so I can bring Eragon back. You must've believed in them. You gave Eragon the phoenix feather and told him what it was for. You still have the one you got from Father's Sorrowsong. _

_Do you believe, Mother? Do you?_

Islanzadí did not answer, and she never would again. Arya was not her daughter, not any more. She had no right to ask the Elf Queen or demand answers from her. To the elf people she was dead, and the elves didn't believe in an afterlife.

Arya smiled bitterly and hugged herself, wincing at the wind. She was not an elf anymore, so why couldn't she believe in gods? There was no reason not no, anymore.

_Stop, _Faolin said, turning to eye her anxiously. _You're hurting yourself. _

_I'm fine, little one, _Arya murmured. _Just thinking. _

_Think about something else. _

_Such as?_

Faolin stretched his emerald wings. _Where we're going, _he suggested. _We're going to a place no one's been since Caspar, thousands of years ago. Think about it! We're seeing untouched land, one that hasn't been burned up or torn or bloodied. _

Arya blinked, and scratched Faolin's scales again. _Yes, _she said. _We're going to a place so old and forgotten it's new. _

_We'll see so much! Animals, Lore said, and places, all kinds of creatures that no one can remember seeing. We'll be true explorers, like the Dragon Riders were meant to be!_

The green Rider turned that over in her mind. The Dragon Riders, when they were created, were meant to be missionaries and adventurers, traveling to all parts of the world to spread peace and knowledge.

That was their true purpose. Not war, not killing, but learning, and spreading what they learned.

A slow, steady smile crept onto Arya's face, one that she didn't even try to hide.

_Yes, _she said to her dragon. _We'll be what Dragon Riders are meant to be. _

Faolin laughed and loosed a joyous roar, rolling gleefully.

_Settle down, _Murtagh said, not unkindly. Faolin steadied himself again, and Murtagh pointed. A silver band glowed on the horizon, lit by sunfire.

_The Edda River, _he said.

Arya nodded, planting one hand on Faolin's neck and the other on Erisdar. _Let's go, _she said, and they rushed onwards.

* * *

**Yeah, sorry not much happened these last two chapters. It's mostly just filler stuff, but _important _filler stuff. Arya's journey in particular is important, because she's moving from the Princess of the Elves into a Dragon Rider-two totally different sets of ideology, customs, and cultures. **

**Also, a note on Galbatorix and the Name of Names: this was the one plot point in Brisingr that bothered me the most. So there's supposedly a name that allows one person to have control over _all the magic in the world? _Um, didn't a _whole race of people _try that and got themselves basically wiped off the face of the planet? **

**Oh, well. What do I know, right?**

**I'll write more after I sleep! Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	31. Chapter Thirty: The Many Winged

**Back! Two days in a row, woohoo! I've got some author's notes at the end to help explain some elements of this story, if you're interested. :) If you ever have any questions, just ask!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. **

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"The golden moments in life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angles come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone." -George Eliot

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Chapter Thirty: The Many-Winged

When they finally touched down, it was night again. Murtagh had wanted to stop and rest the moment they were across the Edda River, but Arya and Raltin argued him down. It was still too close to the King's range, they'd said. He could still come after us.

Murtagh resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Galbatorix wasn't going to come after them, not now that they had passed the very edges of Alagaesian soil. He was too busy in Uru'baen, and too arrogant to think that, whatever they were doing beyond his borders, they could hurt him.

He might still send some Halflings out after them, of course. (Murtagh was personally hoping for Tariku.) He seemed to have many now, despite the Fanghur's dwindling numbers. But still, they had killed their enemies and left their bodies to rot in the desert. Galbatorix had no way of knowing where they were going, even if he scryed them.

Murtagh had set up wards for that. His wards probably wouldn't hold Galbatorix off forever, but even if the King broke through them, he'd only be able to see Murtagh flying in white light, not where he was going or who he was with.

They were safe.

_Relax, _Thorn hummed, shaking himself vigorously. _So what if we flew all day?_

_We're exhausted, _Murtagh said irritably. _Especially the little one. If we're attacked now, we could be in trouble. _

_Attacked by what? _Thorn spread his slightly shaking wings and settled down in the grass. _We haven't seen anything but deer for miles. _

_Something has to hunt the deer, _Murtagh pointed out. _Otherwise they would eat all the grass. No, there's some sort of creature out here, I just don't know _what _yet. Remember what Griffin and Lore said?_

The crimson dragon blinked sleepily. _We're not that far in yet, _he said. _We're still pretty close to Alagaesia, aren't we? _

_Yes. _

_So all the terrifying monsters will be farther in. You don't have to worry yet. _

_Thank you, _Murtagh said dryly, and Thorn hummed.

He did have a point, though. They were only a day's flight from the Edda River, a few days' journey on foot. At some point, some travelers had probably been through here, looking for a shortcut or a place to feed their herds. If this part of the land was inhabited by monsters, surely there would have been stories or rumors.

_Unless Lore's trying to get us killed, I think he would have warned us, _Murtagh thought, and leaned against his dragon.

His companions were also settling in for the night, curling around a low fire. Raltin and Talon were their usual quiet selves, watching, always watching, and Arya was stroking Faolin's head, murmuring soothing things into his ears and sinking magic into his shaking wings.

Faolin had fought valiantly today. He'd slain a Halfling, charged at it like he was twice its size, and he had flown long and hard without complaint.

He had proven himself a full dragon, despite his young age, and Murtagh sent a friendly curl at his mind.

The young dragon didn't respond, but his tail twitched.

Murtagh cleared his throat. "Thorn thinks this is the safest we're going to be, for a while. Do you want to stay for a few days and regain our wind?"

"We shouldn't," Arya said immediately, looking up from her work. "It's too dangerous. You heard Lore. Strange creatures lurk around here, and Galbatorix could still send more Halflings after us. We should move as soon as possible."

"If we keep moving, the dragons will get too tired to continue," Murtagh argued. "We'll have to stop and rest for longer farther in, where there _will _be those creatures Lore warned us about. We're still fairly close to Alagaesia. The monsters he talked about won't be here, they'll be farther in."

Arya pressed her lips together. "We're close enough that Halflings could still find us."

"How? Galbatorix has no idea where we're going—there's nothing out here that he knows of."

"We've left a magical trail," the green Rider said. "They can track us."

"We're going to leave a magical trail wherever we go," Murtagh snapped. "That's the nature of magic. The half-Riders aren't skilled enough to follow it. Galbatorix doesn't take much time to train them. They're usually taught by Tariku, and that man couldn't track his way out of the palace, let alone across all of Alagaesia."

"We shouldn't risk staying longer than we have to," Arya argued. "It's too dangerous. We don't know how far away our goal is, nor how long it will take to get there and back."

"We have a map," Murtagh pointed out. "We're not going to wander around aimlessly. Between the map and my dreams, we know where we need to go."

"But not how long it will take to get there."

"Let's wait until morning," Raltin said, speaking up for the first time since they had left the desert. Both Riders turned to eye him.

He shrugged, and Talon's eyes glittered in the firelight. "If we wait a full night, the dragons can rest and recover. We can listen for Halflings, and the crazy Librarian said that as long as we were respectful, nothing was going to kill us."

Murtagh canted his head, considering. He still didn't particularly like Raltin—or trust the man not to murder him in his sleep—but the cave-dweller had a point.

"A night," he said, looking at Arya. She chewed her lip, looking at her sleeping dragon.

"A night," she agreed.

Murtagh relaxed. "Very well, then. We'll leave in the morning."

"We should set wards, though," the elf-woman said. "As a precaution. Wards against both an aerial attack and ones here on the ground."

Murtagh nodded. "I know a few. Do you have any?"

"Yes."

"Raltin?"

The man blinked lazily, and slowly shook his head.

"Watch us, then. We'll teach you some wards later, when we're not quite so tired." Murtagh stood and limped around the gathered dragons, sowing wards to fend off fire, weapons, and solid bodies. Arya joined him, walking the opposite direction, and her wards were to prevent magical attacks and scrying.

When they were finished, magic hung around them in thick, fainly shimmering walls.

"We're leaving even more of a magical trail," Murtagh warned.

Arya shrugged. "But we are well-protected. The Halflings will not be able to break these wards easily. We'll be able to fight them off and kill them before they can get to us."

Murtagh nodded and rejoined his dragon, settling in for the night. He put the fire out with a muttered word and Thorn curled around him, creating a warm, solid wall of scales.

_Don't worry about Raltin killing you, _Thorn said fondly, yawning. _He can't get through me. _

Murtagh smiled tiredly and closed his eyes. _I know, Thorn. I know. _

They slept.

_He walked across the fields, looking nervously left and right. The call in his bones pulled him onwards, but fear jangled his nerves too, and he felt magic shudder down his spine. _

_He couldn't see or hear anything, but he _felt _it, like an arm brushing his own, or a shoulder rubbing his as it passed. _

_The fields were still and quiet, and it was unnatural. The traveler had heard stories of monsters, demons who walked the grasses, but he'd always thought they were only stories. Could they be real, walking beside him?_

_The traveler—Caspar—continued to walk, and the moon rose and rose in the wide, open sky. _

_It reached its highest point, and then Caspar began to see things. _

_At first, they had no real form. They appeared to be floating balls of light, drifting aimlessly around him, and they didn't seem to register his presence. _

_They were warm, though, and brightly glowing. They were magic, and joy, and anger and love and pain, and Caspar tried not to touch them. _

_They floated against him, though, brushing his skin, stirring his hair. They didn't hurt, but they were hot, and reacted to his touch. _

_The glowing balls of light spun away, flashing, and began to shift, taking shape. Some were animals and some looked like elves, but most were wild and strange. They had many broad, feathery wings and clawed hands, and four heads that turned, blinked, and bared their teeth. When they beat their wings, the air bent, and each claw was sharp enough to shred the sky. _

_Their heads were not elf heads, or even dwarf ones; they were animals, and they smiled like elves and reached out to stroke Caspar's arms with their sharp claws. _

_These spirits were whispering too, in words that Caspar didn't understand but desperately wanted to. They floated beside him, turning their many heads, stirring the air with their many wings, and they spoke to him and laughed. _

_Caspar reached out tentatively, hesitantly, longing to touch one of these spirits but afraid to do so, and one of them offered a clawed arm. _

_Caspar's fingers sank through it, and at once he screamed—love and joy and agony ripped through him, great, terrible, so strong he wanted to _die_—and he fell to knees. _

_The spirit laughed, spreading its many wings, and tore off into the air with its fellows. They lost their shapes and became swirling balls of light again, rushing to the sky, and then they were gone. _

_Caspar choked, struggling to remember himself, to pull himself out of the painlovejoy, and he could barely breathe. _

"Murtagh," Arya hissed, and the red Rider jerked awake. "Murtagh, wake up."

"Whasgoinon?" he mumbled, but stood up anyway, pushing Thorn's wing off to climb into open air again.

Arya blinked up at him, green fire in her palm, and her eyes were serious.

Raltin was awake too, standing at the very edge of the ward-circle, and Murtagh frowned, hastily limping over to the edge to see what they were worried about.

"Halflings?"

Arya shook her head. "No. We haven't seen or heard them."

_Why am I awake, then? _Murtagh thought, but didn't say anything. He squinted out through the shimmering darkness, leaning on Zar'roc. He carefully extended his mind, searching for any enemies or vicious thoughts; he heard none, only the _hungerfoodcold _of the deer.

In the distance, beyond Murtagh's range, he heard a wolf—or something that sounded like a wolf—howl out mournfully, and the sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

The moon was at its highest in the sky, and suddenly he knew what was happening before it did.

Swirling balls of light, exactly like his dream, drifted down slowly, pulsing like miniature stars.

"They look like gleamers," Raltin said, referring to the glowing worms that decorated caves.

"They are spirits," Arya murmured. The werelight glittered in her eyes. "I have encountered some before."

"Will they hurt us?"

She shook her head. "I do not believe so."

"What are they the spirits of?" Raltin wondered. Murtagh thought back to the bright, strange creatures in his dream and suppressed the urge to shiver. "People?"

"No," Arya said. "They are not people, or the departed souls of any being that ever walked on the earth. They are just magic. These are what sorcerers and Shades draw on."

"They are a race," Murtagh said, and didn't quite know where that knowledge came from. "They're thinking, feeling creatures, but they're not like _us, _like humans, elves, or even dragons."

"How do you know?" Arya said.

Murtagh swallowed, and watched one of the bright, glowing orbs sink down to singe the grass. "Watch," he said, and carefully reached outside the wards to touch it.

His fingers sank into the light, and at once raw emotion, more than he could ever feel, knocked him back, and orb flared.

Murtagh choked, fighting to stand up again, and the light began to shift, spreading out into six wings, clawed hands, and four blinking, grinning heads.

Raltin swore.

The other orbs began to do the same, changing into their bizarre, beautiful forms, though some still chose animal shapes or vaguely human ones.

"They didn't show us this last time," Arya whispered, awed.

The spirit smiled at her with a cat's face, and offered a clawed hand.

"We are not your enemies," she promised, eyeing the spirit. "We are only travelers, and I am a Slayer of Shades."

The being's grin widened, and it whispered to Arya, its voice soft and echoing. Murtagh strained to hear, but he couldn't understand what the being was saying.

More and more spirits fell from the sky, converging around the three Riders, taking shape and pressing eagerly against the wards.

The first spirit smiled and spoke to its kin, and they all reached forward, offering their sharp-clawed hands and smiling.

"What do they want?" Murtagh breathed, praying the wards would hold.

Arya shrugged, and the fire in her palm wavered. "I don't know. No one really knows what spirits want. They just _are._"

Murtagh watched, half afraid and half transfixed, as the first spirit, still smiling, casually stuck its arm inside the wards, breaking through them like they weren't even there.

Arya gasped and took a step back, and the fire in her hand went out. The light came from the spirits now, glowing and pulsing as they stirred the air.

Another spirit descended from the sky, settling next to Arya's pack. She turned to it, opening her mouth, but it smiled and held a single claw up to one set of lips. The spirits pressed in, blowing the wards aside, and they all smiled and hemmed the Riders in.

Thorn stirred, opening a great eye blearily, but a spirit tapped his nose and he fell back asleep, head lolling.

"Hey!" Murtagh shouted, reaching for his dragon.

The spirits stopped him, shaking their many heads.

_What is this?_

The first spirit waved a hand, and the Arya's phoenix feather, sad, drooping, and cut in half as it was, appeared in his palm.

Arya cried out angrily, calling her magic, but the spirit batted the spell aside easily and smiled. Its wings brushed Murtagh's back, and a rush of _peacecalmcontentment _flooded him, banishing his confusion and fear.

One of the wings curled around Zar'roc, dragging it from the Rider's grasp, and the spirit soon held the feather in one hand and the sword in the other. It blinked at Murtagh.

"We need those," he said, and his voice was rough. "Please. We need those for our journey."

The spirit blinked its many eyes and light gathered in its palms, flashing brightly. The feather flared, and though it didn't become whole again, color bloomed inside it once again. The spirit returned both feather and blade, still smiling gently.

Arya stared at the feather and Murtagh leaned on the blade, and neither spoke, but they stared at the spirits.

The first spirit bowed and then floated over to Raltin, whispering in his ear. The indigo Rider seemed to listen, his eyes wide, and then, just as soon as they had come, the spirits were gone, racing back up towards the sky.

Within moments they were gone, and the wards shimmered into place again, leaving the three Riders shocked, awed, and confused.

"What the _hell _was that," Raltin said loudly, rubbing his ear. "I thought we weren't supposed to meet creatures until later."

Murtagh shrugged, leaning on his sword, testing its weight to see if the spirit had done anything to it.

Arya turned the feather over and over in her hands, and now it was no longer dull with a fiery center, it was the color of flame throughout, brilliant red, orange, and gold.

"It's not as dead," she said, awed.

"The spirits were helping us," Murtagh murmured, thoughtful. _Thorn?_

The red dragon woke with a start, jerking upright, tail thrashing. _What's going on? _

_You're alright, _Murtagh said, and quickly explained.

_Spirits, _Thorn murmured, once he was caught up. The other dragons were awake too, watching the sky for any sign of the glowing beings. _They didn't hurt you?_

_No, _Murtagh assured him. He thought about the emotion the creature had held. _No, they didn't hurt me. They healed the feather, somewhat, and did something to Zar'roc, but they didn't hurt us. _

"They're trying to help," Arya said, breaking the silence. She held tightly on to the feather, her eyes calm and sure.

"Why would spirits want to help us?" Raltin muttered. "Sorcerers and Shades use them, right?"

Arya nodded.

"So why would they help us, three magicians who could force them back into slavery?"

"Arya told him she was a Slayer of Shades," Murtagh said. "And we're Dragon Riders. We do not draw our power from spirits. Ours comes from dragons."

"Dragon Riders are also the knowledge-bringers of the world," Arya said softly. "For thousands of years they spread learning through the world, and taught people to respect the spirits. Sorcery was a forbidden craft for millennia under the Riders, and spirits were revered and respected."

"They're ancient," Murtagh said thoughtfully. "To them, a hundred years must be nothing, and sorcery still isn't a widely-practiced art. They must not realize that the Riders are all but dead. They were helping us to ensure we would continue to help them."

Arya nodded. "That makes sense." She tucked the feather halves away safely. "Eragon and I met spirits once. We were running from the Empire, and they descended on us. We communicated with them, and they gilded lilies for us." A faint smile curved on her face.

"They're benevolent," Murtagh said. "They don't want anyone to bother them, and they helped us." He couldn't help but smile a little too, and Raltin rolled his eyes.

_Not everything out here wants us dead, _Thorn sang, eyes bright. _That's great! _

Murtagh couldn't help but share his dragon's enthusiasm. "I feel rested," he said honestly, stretching. "Should we leave?"

Arya was on her feet immediately. "Let's go."

Raltin sighed heavily but he too stood, and Murtagh blinked up at the sky.

_Something out there wants us to succeed, _he thought. _Something out there wants us to continue. _

He climbed onto Thorn's back, shouldering Zar'roc, and he felt the call in his bones, pulling him on. Their first experience in the east hadn't been a bad one. They hadn't been attacked or hunted. They'd been _helped, _and Murtagh smiled to himself, scratching Thorn's scales, as the great dragon reared and shoved off, scattering earth and grass as he took to the sky.

Arya and Raltin followed and the dragons roared happily, racing along, spurred by the spirits' gifts of energy and hope.

_We can do this! _Murtagh thought, and promptly forgot to heal the crushed, dragon-torn earth behind him.

* * *

**Some notes: **

**On magic; yesterday a reviewer brought to my attention that my description of magic as a physical thing that sparks and glimmers might be confusing. In CP's world, magic does not work this way; it is mostly invisible until it is cast. I was, however, raised on Harry Potter and Tamora Pierce, and so to me magic is a form of energy, like electricity, nuclear power, or the sun, that gives off light as a by-product. Sorry if that confused people! **

**On the Name of Names; I'm still sort of iffy on where I stand with the Name. I feel like CP introduced it too late in the story, after he had already set up these laws and rules of magic. 1) I still have trouble believing one person could control the ancient language when a whole race tried and failed. This can be handwaved with the Eldunari, but still. 2) We were taught basically from the moment Eragon discovers magic that there are some feats you just can't do, because the strain of trying will kill you. Controlling an _entire races of magic-users at the same time _seems like one of those things. **

**On spirits; one of my favorite chapters in _Brisingr _was the one with Eragon and Arya meeting the spirits. I felt like they were a great, interesting addition to the story, and am super-dissappointed that CP never did anything with them. So I brought them back! These spirits are modeled on the original _seraphim_ (or angels) of mythology; intense, foriegn beings that can be malignant or benevolent, and are often "summoned" to do a person's bidding, the result of which is occasionally possession. **

**This chapter was basically a hope spot. It's all been very depressing, so I wanted something on a lighet note. ;) Until the end, but whatever, right?**

**Thanks for reading! I'll have more soon! **

**~WSS**


	32. Chapter Thirty One: A Tribesman

**Hi! Back again! This is one of hopefully two updates today. Enjoy! Thank you for your continued support!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." –Friedrich Nietzsche

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Chapter Thirty-one: A Tribesman

The Earl Tariku no Nashuwar looked out at the city of Uru'baen, his lip curled in disgust. Snow blanketed everything but the Lower City, where the riot fires burned, and even from here he could see the bodies in the streets and the blood staining the walls.

_Animals, _he thought, disgusted, and turned away from the window. The palace was unusually quiet, for most of the nobles were in their homes, dancing and feasting while the riots crept ever closer.

Not that Lower City rabble would ever make it to the Upper City, but still. Soon they would tire of destroying their own home and turn to the Middle City, and then push forward.

Tariku snorted. Animals, all of them. They didn't seem to realize that every year, they made their own miserable situation worse by rioting and burning down their homes. They were like the snake eating his own tail, greedily biting and swallowing until they choked on it, or realized they had fatally wounded themselves and died.

The Earl hated them all. If he was King, he would simply purge the Lower City and start over, bringing in war refugees and farmers who had lost everything. Those people wouldn't riot. They would be glad of the chance to start over.

_Food? _Tresia thought, her mind a warm curl of hunger and bloodlust. She wanted to go out into the riots and eat her fill. Tariku was inclined to let her, but the King had forbidden it, at least until the riots calmed again.

_Not this time, my dear, _he thought back.

Tresia sighed and Tariku made his way through the empty halls towards the dragonhold, where his beautiful monstress waited for him.

The few servants he met bowed deeply and he smiled, enjoying the rush of pleasure that came with acknowledgement and respect. The people here in Uru'baen knew who he was, and what he was capable of, and they _respected _him for it.

In the tribes, they hadn't. He hadn't been a Rider then, or even a magician, but he was still a warlord, a warrior as proud and fearless as any Rider. Within his tribe and his allies he had been respected, because to dishonor a warlord was death, and rightly so. But outside of his tribe, he had been hated and despised, called a war-mongering coward because he held to the old ways and fought against Ajihad's diplomacy.

And when his people had been slaughtered, the other tribes, even his allies, did not aid him, as they should aid a warlord. They left him to die in the mountains, and took his title from him. The proud Nashuwar were rejected as a tribe, reduced to little more than horse-thieves and mercenaries, and their leader was branded a traitor.

_Animals, _thought Tariku, opening the door to the dragonhold. _Animals, all of them, especially that Ajihad. _

Because it was Ajihad the Tribeless who had the Nashuwar decried as thieves, who left their blood cooling in the dirt and refused to award them a tribesmen's burial, even though they had died fighting. It was Ajihad who turned the tribes from vengeance and Tariku's side, who took his daughter and left his people, who claimed that the Nashuwar had brought their destruction on themselves by seeking war.

It was Ajihad who left his own _brother _to die in the dust, among the bodies of their tribe, and joined the Varden.

Tresia felt her Rider's hate and uncurled, purple eyes flashing.

_Anger, _she said, coming closer. _Rage-hate. Time to kill?_

_No, my dear, _Tariku said, stroking her nose. _That enemy is already dead. _ He wished he had been there to see it. They said Ajihad had died fighting, overcome by Urgals. Tariku would've liked to be there, to watch the light drain out of his brother's eyes.

Tresia drank in his hate and growled, prowling back to her usual place in the corner, where she could watch everything that happened in the dragonhold.

The whole place was oddly empty today. Only Shruikan and two other Halflings shared the space now, when there were usually many more Halflings and occasionally another young dragon. Two of the Halflings were in Dras Leona, Tariku knew, and another pair was probably out hunting. Shade and Shadow were near Belatona, and the last was probably in the city somewhere, watching the riots.

Satisfied with this mental roll call, Tariku wandered over to Tresia, passing the shimmering Dragon Cage. He sneered at Saphira, mentally tearing through her vacant mind, and the once-mighty dragoness didn't even twitch.

_Useless, _Tariku thought, kicking the cage as he passed. _We should just kill you and be done with it. _

But Master didn't want to kill Saphira. She was a female dragon, after all, and those were still rare. There were only three she-dragons alive, and while Tariku personally preferred Halflings, he could see where dragons came in handy.

Tresia snorted. _Too big, _she said. _Don't stop growing. Makes stealth-and-hunt hard. Dodging too. _

_You have a point, my dear, _the Earl said. Shruikan, for example, was a terrifying warrior, but he was simply too big to be completely effective. One reason he hadn't been able to destroy Thorn and Murtagh during the Battle of the Falling was his size; he was too large to successfully avoid the smaller, more agile Thorn.

Tresia, on the other hand, had been able to harry Saphira for a long time.

The ancient dragon Glaedr had also been too large to avoid a smaller dragon, and he'd been killed for it.

No, the size of the Halfling was better, but Tariku wasn't about to argue it with his Master. Galbatorix knew what he was doing.

Usually, anyway.

_Careful, _the Halfling warned, her purple eyes glowing.

Tariku smiled tightly. _I am, my dear, I am. _

They settled in together, the Earl and the Halfling, and waited for their Master to come.

Outside they could hear the faint howl of the rioters and the roar of the wind, and weak light shone through the dragonhold.

Eventually, the King did come, striding into the hold with his usual proud, carrying grace. He surveyed the room with bright eyes, and smiled when he saw Tariku.

"My friend," he said warmly. "Come. We have much to discuss."

Obediently, Tariku climbed to his feet and followed his King back out into the hall. Very few servants wandered near the hold unless they absolutely had to, so Galbatorix and his Rider passed through the palace undisturbed.

"I have received troubling news from Belatona," the King rumbled, after a time.

"Is the traitor stirring up trouble?"

Galbatorix nodded. "Yes. Murtagh has left the city. He departed a week ago and took the elf-woman Arya and another of his Riders with him."

"Where is he going?"

"East, it seems."

"East? To the dwarves, then, or the elves?"

The King shook his head. "Shade and Shadow followed them through the Hadarac Desert, and they made no move to turn north or south."

"But surely they were going to, once they got out of the sands?"

Again Galbatorix shook his head. "Why would they wait? If they were truly traveling to the elves or the dwarves, they would go through the desert diagonally, to save time. But they did not. They went straight east."

Tariku frowned. "Are Shade and Shadow still with them?"

"No." Galbatorix's face darkened. "Shiyver and Dunlath have not contacted me for over a day; I can only assume that they have died."

_Damn. _

"What do you need me to do?" Tariku said immediately.

The King sighed. "I do not know yet, my friend. I would send you after our wayward friend, but I do not yet know what the Varden plans to do."

"Surely they'll stay in their cities until spring?"

"Most likely. Nasuada does not want to risk winter's death by forcing a march. But General Roran Stronghammer is missing, Tariku."

"Still? Hasn't it been almost a month?"

"Yes. And this worries me, my friend, it worries me." Tariku couldn't see any worry on Galbatorix's face, but if the King said he was worried, he was worried. "Where is Stronghammer? Why hasn't anyone spotted him? According to our spies, Nasuada and hers tore up the countryside from Belatona to Feinster, but they returned empty handed.

"And our forces have not seen him. We have two Guards and nearly a dozen outposts in the area, and none of them have seen hide nor hair of Roran Stronghammer."

Tariku nodded, thinking. "Is it possible that he has gone east as well?"

"Unlikely. He disappeared a full three weeks before Murtagh left. Why would he go so early?"

"Perhaps he found something, and sent for the Riders?"

The King frowned. "No, that is not possible. Three weeks for a man, even a lone one on an Imperial horse, to get all the way across the Hadarac? Impossible. The horse would have to stop and rest, and surely he would have been spotted. No, Stronghammer fled west, towards Feinster, and then he vanished."

"Shall I search for him, Master?"

"No. I already have two of your fellows looking for him. They will stop at every outpost and Guard and search for Stronghammer."

"You think he has infiltrated our ranks?"

Galbatorix shrugged. "It is possible. He has shown himself to be a charismatic leader."

Tariku nodded, accepting.

"As for the Varden… I have the Black Hand well-entrenched with them. None of them are quite as good as Elva was, of course, but they say that Nasuada is making no plans to move. She seems to want to find her precious General first."

"And Murtagh's Riders?"

"They are being led by the Kuastan oaf in Murtagh's absence. They are strong, but without a seasoned strategist commanding them? They are currently not a threat."

"So the Varden is entrenched for the winter, and does not appear to want to move?"

"Yes," the King said, and straightened his shoulders. "Very well. The Varden is not our most pressing concern. I am still worried about Stronghammer, but even he is not much of a threat, separated from his Varden."

Tariku waited.

"The two Riders Murtagh is traveling with," Galbatorix mused, tapping his fingers against his thigh thoughtfully. "Arya Shadeslayer, the Princess, and the cave-dweller…"

"Morlansson," Tariku said, remembering. "His name is Morlansson."

"Morlan? I know that name." The King thought for a moment, and then his eyes brightened. "Ah, yes. Morlan the farmer, from Otona."

"Otona?"

"A little village, not far from this city," the King said, waving his hand. "They could not pay their taxes one year and so I had Morzan raze the place. Morlan was a farmer who wrote to me, begging for mercy. I did not know he had a child."

"Was this Morlan slain?"

"I assume so, yes. I'm surprised his child survived. He must not have been in the village at the time." Wicked light shone in the King's eyes. "Hmm, I bet this child is angry. His entire village was destroyed, his parents murdered… Yes. That's what I'll have you do."

"Master?"

The King smiled. "Your Tracking skills, are they up to par?"

Tariku shifted.

Annoyance flashed across the King's face, but he waved a hand. "Mine are excellent. I shall spell a stone for you, one that will trace Murtagh's magical trail. Follow them. Use dreaming spells to contact Morlan's son. You understand his anger, his need for justice. Play on that. Sway him to us, my friend."

Tariku bowed deeply. He could do that. If there was one thing he understood, it was the thirst for revenge, to see the murderers of your family slaughtered. There was one problem, though.

"Master, _you _ordered the death of his village. How do I turn him from that truth?"

Galbatorix shrugged, dark light dancing in his eyes. "Turn him only to you, then. Say you need his help to murder me, and you will reward him richly. You will make him your right hand. He will be respected, the leader of his Dragon Riders, helping you rule over Alagaesia forever."

Tariku could almost see it, too, himself and the boy, standing proud and tall, and he held that image in his mind and burned it there, so he could share it, if he got close enough to the boy.

"Who knows?" Galbatorix said, chuckling. "Perhaps you can even convince him to help you murder your niece, Nasuada."

Tariku's face stilled.

"Go, my friend," the King said, waving his hand. "Return to me in the evening. I shall have your spelled stones ready for you then."

Tariku bowed and turned to leave.

"Oh, and young Elva wants to see you. She says she has some advice. Go visit her."

The Earl gritted his teeth, but bowed again. "Yes, Master."

The King nodded, and left his right hand alone in the halls.

_Ghosteyes, _the Earl thought irritably, but turned his feet to her chambers nonetheless. He hating visiting the girl, but those who denied her had a tendency to meet very nasty accidents.

_Tresia, my dear, _he called. She responded at once, still swirling with lazy hunger and cold hate. _I will be along shortly. Why don't you find something to eat?_

She growled happily and took off, and Tariku continued on his way.

He stopped in front of Elva's chambers and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Earl Tariku," he said, trying not to shudder at her voice.

"Come in."

He pushed open the door, and two pairs of lurid purple eyes blinked at him.

"Earl Tariku," Elva said, patting an empty space on her silken bed. "Come. Sit with me."

He did, reluctantly. The girl's dragon, Zaira, bared her snowy teeth, but shifted so the Earl could sit.

"You wished to see me, child?"

Elva nodded. "When you go to hunt Murtagh, take me with you."

Tariku arched an eyebrow. "No," he said.

The dragon bared her teeth.

"Why?"

"Because you are small," he growled. "And young, and inexperienced." _And I do not like you. _

Elva snorted. "Our Master has been tutoring me personally for three months. I'm proficient in magic, and if we fight, I can sense incoming pain; no one will be able to hurt me."

"Why do you want to go?"

Elva's purple eyes glittered. "I am a Dragon Rider," she said. "Even my dragon was not born naturally, was created by the darkest of magics, I am still a Rider. I want to show them that."

"Them?" Tariku eyed the girl, and he saw in her the very same hate, the thirst for blood that he held inside himself. Someone had hurt her, then, had pricked and stabbed at her heart until it turned on them and cried for their blood.

He could respect that.

"The Riders," she hissed. "The ones who made me this. I want to show them what they have created."

Tariku thought for a moment. He hated the girl, really, but she had her uses, and if it stunned and hurt the Riders to see her…

"Very well," he said, and stood. "Be ready to leave by morning."

Elva smiled. "I will be," she said, and her dragon hummed.

* * *

**So now you know what everyone is up to! :D**

**A note on Tariku and Ajihad: yes, he is Ajihad's brother. We don't know exactly where Ajihad came from, just that he was from the Wandering Tribes and that he showed up in the Varden one day with his daughter. In my story, he was part of a warlike tribe that searched for any excuse to fight. He is the younger brother, and so Tariku was the tribe's leader. Ajihad wanted the tribe to stop warring among the other tribes and fight the Empire, and when the Nashuwar were destroyed, he left Tariku to die. **

**A note on Elva's dragon: This dragon was created in the same way as the silver egg from Chapter 2 of Eldunari. She is a female, and her name, Zaira, means "blooming flower." **

**Thanks for reading! Up next we've got a Traveler chapter!**

**~WSS**


	33. Chapter Thirty Two: Flowers

**Hi everyone! How was your Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanza/holiday? Nice? Relaxing, I hope? Anyway, I hope you all have enjoyed the holidays! I _should _see you again before the New Year, but we shall have to see. **

**Thanks to all who've read and reviewed!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Inheritance.**

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"But we are open flowers in the windy field of this war-torn world." –Mumford & Sons, _Hold on to what You Believe_

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"A man of courage is also full of faith." –Marcus Tullius Cicero

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Chapter Thirty-two: Flowers in a Windy Field

"The old stories have always been oddly specific," Courage was saying, as he guided Traveler through the Winter Trees. "All trees have souls, grass does not, ivy and weeds are the vessels of evil spirits, and some, but not all, flowers have souls."

"Really?" Traveler said, fascinated. He could still barely wrap his mind around the idea that trees had souls, let alone little flowers.

Courage nodded. "Oh, yes. Flowers began on trees, you see. When trees would bear fruit, their fruit was always born from flowers. After a time, flowers started growing in other places too, and some of them, particularly the ones that grew close to trees, had souls, but others were choked by weeds and did not."

"Be careful, Courage," Guide warned. "Young Traveler has a thirst for stories I've not seen in a long time. If you keep indulging him, we might never leave."

Courage grinned. "Very well, very well. Another time then, my friend."

Traveler glared at Guide, but there wasn't any heat to it. "So I'll see you again?"

"Oh, most certaintly," Courage said. "Everyone comes back to these Lands eventually. By the time you get back, I'll bet you'll have more stories to share with me, eh?"

Traveler smiled. "I hope so," he said.

Courage clapped him on the back. "Good man. I want to hear all about your adventures, your friends, your lovers."

Traveler flushed. "I don't have any lovers."

Courage's smile faded, and he looked Traveler up and down. "Do you really believe that?"

"That's enough," Guide cut in, gently reprimanding. "We are almost to the Bridge."

"The Bridge?"

"Yes, the Bridge of Riverfell that branches the gap between the Land of Forests and the Land of Fire."

"There's a gap?"

Courage and Guide both nodded.

"The Land of Fire is always burning," Courage explained. "It was created by when the King of Fire fought the Lord of Ice and is the home of those who choose it. Because the fires don't go out, all other Lands were in danger of burning down, particularly our Land, which is all trees.

"The Lord of these Lands hates caring for us here, but he hates disorder here more, so in an effort to preserve some appearance of order, he created a canyon that separates Fire Land from the others, so all Lands didn't burn. To reach the end of your journey, you must go through the Land of Fire, and get there, you must cross the Bridge."

Traveler nodded. He could do that. Crossing a bridge didn't sound terribly hard, not after the trials in the Lands of Blood and Water, anyway.

"There it is," Guide said, and pointed.

The Forest Land abruptly stopped, falling away down a steep, sharp cliff. Far off in the distance, Traveler saw another Land through fog and smoke, and between these two places was a huge, impossibly long tree. Its roots were buried in the Forest Land and its branches stretched out to Fire Land.

Traveler stopped. "_That's _the bridge?"

Courage nodded. "Rather frightening, isn't it?"

Traveler stared. "I have to cross it? There's not another way?"

"No," said the lilting voice, and the woman from stood, shaking dust off her dress. She had been sitting among the great tree's roots, and she smiled as the three approached.

Traveler drank in her appearance, and her smile widened when she saw him. "This is the only way to cross," she said. "But you don't have to be afraid. We'll be here with you."

He smiled at them and looked across the old, toppled tree, stepping closer and closer to the edge. He peered down into the gap between worlds, and his head spun.

Mist and fog swirled in the depths and Traveler could hear the faint sound of rushing water. The river dropped off Fire Land's side, a faint, silver ribbon, and plunged into the canyon. It rose up the Forest Land's side, impossibly, surging up and flowing through the rest of the lands, defying everything Traveler knew about the world.

"How?" He breathed.

Guide shrugged. "No one knows. It has always flowed like this, because the river will not be stopped."

Traveler watched it, fascinated.

"Come on," Sacrifice said, climbing nimbly up onto the tree. "We are pressed for time, after all."

Courage and Guide followed her cheerfully, but Traveler eyed the tree warily. Walking across a deep, misty gorge on a tree did not seem like the most intelligent thing to do.

_You're going to get yourself killed, _an irritated, painfully familiar voice said inside his head. He frowned, looking around for another person or perhaps a giant fish, but no one was there, and the voice did not speak again.

"Come!"

Reluctantly, Traveler climbed onto the old tree and began to follow his guides, balancing as best as he could. He was fine until he cleared the side, and then he was suspended in open air, and impossible drop below him and nothing but an old, slightly slippery tree stopping him from falling.

_This is not good, _he thought nervously, spreading his arms for balance. The river plunged down and up and his friends kept moving, walking confidently like they weren't afraid of falling and disappearing forever.

_This is crazy, _Traveler thought. He reached for magic, calling it to his side and whispering the words for balance, spreading his hands.

He tried not to look down into the swirling mists, and kept walking.

"That's it!" Courage called encouragingly, smiling widely. He slowed, letting Guide and Sacrifice keep moving and Traveler catch up. "Remembered you're a magician, did you?"

Traveler couldn't help but smile back at Courage, who's grin was infectious. "Do I know you?" he asked. "Did I know you when I was alive?"

The smile faded on Courage's face. "No," he said. "Not directly, anyway. We never met."

"Oh. You seem familiar."

Courage smiled crookedly. "You'll find a lot of that here, in these Lands."

"So if I never met you, why are you helping me?"

The elf guide shrugged. "You were very important to someone," he murmured. "Someone who was very important to me. Besides, it wasn't your time to come here."

Traveler frowned. "Not my time?"

Courage shook his head. "We are like flowers, when we're alive. Hundreds of thousands of flowers in a windy field, growing, living, and dying. Each flower has a time and a place today. Perhaps they will be killed by winter's frost, or choked by ivy, or perhaps they will just grow old and die.

"But a flower does not die before its time. This is one of the laws of nature, set down by the Mother Light and the Father Sky who created the world."

"So I died before I should have?" Traveler asked, thoughtful. He remembered, remembered—

(_light heat pain in his chest, someone screaming, falling downdowndow and water_)

—nothing.

Courage nodded. "I cannot tell you why or how you died," he said warningly. "But yes, you died before it was your time to go. Another was supposed to die, but you died instead. And it is not right."

"So you're helping me remember who I am to…?"

"To fix it," the elf said. Ahead, Guide and Sacrifice were nearing the end of the fallen-tree bridge. He smiled again, hard but at the same time friendly. "We are going to fix it. You'll understand when you reach the end of your journey, young one."

Traveler nodded and kept walking, and he found that now he wasn't quite so afraid. He actually kind of liked being so high up, so high he thought he could touch the sky. He grabbed that revelation and dropped it into his magical flask, smiling at the collected memories.

His flask of knowledge was over half full now, and all the memories and pieces of himself he had regained swirled together colorfully.

Courage eyed the flask. "You're getting closer, aren't you?"

Traveler nodded.

"Good."

They continued their walk, balancing on the ancient tree. The river plunged and rose again, swirling silver, and Guide and Sacrifice abruptly vanished.

"Hey!" Traveler shouted, pointing. "Where'd they go? Did they fall?" What would he do without Guide? The elf had gotten him this far, and they still had far to go. What would Traveler do if he was gone?

"They didn't fall," Courage reassured him. "You'll see what happened in a moment."

They neared the end of the log, and Traveler paled.

The tree did not reach all the way to the Land of Fire. Its roots were buried firmly in Forest Land, but its branches fell short, hanging into empty space instead of touching solid ground.

Guide and Sacrifice were in Fire Land, and Sacrifice was walking away again but Guide was waiting peacefully.

"How do I get over there?" Traveler asked worriedly. There was a good ten foot gap between the farthest tips of the branches—too thin to support his weight—and the solid earth of Fire Land.

"Well jump, of course," Courage said. "It's not hard."

"That's a _ten foot jump,_" Traveler argued. "_Elves _can't even jump that far."

"True," Courage said. And then he ran out to the very tips of the branches and hurled himself into the air.

For a second he hung, suspended over the falling river and the mist, and then he landed lightly on solid ground.

"But I just did."

Traveler glared at him, spreading his arms for balance. How was that possible? The tips of the branches weren't even steady! How could they hold up a fully grown elf?

"Come on," Courage called. "You can do this! Think about how I did it."

_Magic, _Traveler thought. _He used magic to make the jump. _

But could he trust himself with magic? It was recently new to him again, and didn't it take months, even years of practicing to master the craft? All he'd done was light a few fires and balance himself! Could he hold himself up long enough to make the jump?

"You have to trust yourself," Courage said. "I know you're scared. I know you think you can't do it, but you have to try. Have faith in yourself. Don't be afraid."

Traveler closed his eyes. He'd come so far. He couldn't turn back now, not after everything he'd learned, everything he'd done, everything others had done for him. It would dishonor them.

He kept his eyes closed and whispered "_rise_" in the ancient language, and hurled himself off the tree.

For a moment, he didn't move. He heard the tree creak below him, groaning at the loss of his weight, and the roar of the river as it plunged down into the abyss, and the wind as it tore past his ears, ice cold and biting.

And then Traveler fell forward and hit the dirt, gasping as the spell left him, and Courage helped him to his feet.

"Very good," he said. "I knew you could do it."

Traveler grinned shakily and brushed himself off. Courage and Guide were both smiling at him, but Sacrifice was nowhere to be seen. In the distance, the red-orange glow of fire lit the grayed horizon and the river flowed on.

"Where's Sacrifice?" Traveler asked.

"She has gone to find your next guide," Courage explained. "She'll meet you later, I expect. As will I."

He bowed and then he was gone, racing across the dry, cracked ground with an elf's easy speed.

Traveler and Guide were alone again.

"Come," said Guide. "Put your courage in the flask and let us go on."

Obediently Traveler did so, and his newfound courage, the knowledge that he could jump from a tree over the abyss—for that's what the canyon was, the abyss—and trust himself to get across it, glowed a bright, brilliant blue.

The color of it looked like fire, and Traveler stroked his sword thoughtfully.

"Are you ready?" Guide asked kindly, eyes twinkling.

Traveler looked up at him and grinned. "Yes."

"Then let us go," Guide said, and led the way into the Land of Fire.

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**Thanks for reading! Enjoy the New Year if I don't see you again before then!**

**~WSS**


	34. Chapter Thirty Three: The Lakeshore

Hi guys! Look, I'm back before the new year! Awesome, right?

Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.

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"Tell them stories." -Lee Scoresby, _The Amber Spyglass_

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Chapter Thirty-three: The Lakeshore

_Arya, _Faolin called, watching the land as it rushed by below him. _What are those? _

Arya blinked, looking down at the earth. Herds of strange, heavy creatures thundered across the ground, bellowing and shoving each other. They looked like horses with cow's heads, and they moved in herds of hundreds, kicking up dirt and dust as they pounded north.

As Arya watched, Thorn drifted low over the seething mass, casually reaching down and snapping his jaws closed around one of the creatures.

He came back up with bloody teeth, rumbling in satisfaction.

_Tastes like cow, _he said. _Try it!_

Talon followed the crimson dragon's example, picking up one of the squalling beasts and tearing into it.

_Remember what Lore said, _Arya warned. _We must respect this land. We do not know what these creatures are. _

_They're clearly prey-animals, _Murtagh said reasonably. _We saw those big cats take down a few earlier. And there don't seem to be any deer around. The dragons have to eat something. _

Arya tilted her head, thinking.

_We're getting close to the lake, _the red Rider pointed out. _We can't eat or drink anything there, so this could be Faolin's last chance to eat for a few days. _

Arya had to admit (grudgingly) that Murtagh had a point. _You can eat them, _she told her dragon. Faolin roared happily and plunged, diving down among the stampeding creatures and snatching a little one up, ripping into it gleefully.

The smell of fresh blood hit Arya's nose and she turned away. She hadn't brought up the elves' philosophy on meat-eating yet, and she wasn't sure she was going to. They were at war; they didn't have the time or resources to be picky.

Faolin ate his fill and soared back up, rejoining the elder dragons and leaving the creatures below to panic and race away.

_I don't think they've ever seen a dragon before, _Faolin said cheerfully.

Arya hid a smile. _No, I don't think they have. _

The pair soared on, wings spread, riding on the warm air. The land below them was hot and dry almost like the desert, but grasses and small, gnarled trees seemed to thrive, dotting the scenes below them as they went on.

They had left the Hadarac and the Spirit Fields (as Murtagh had named them, etching the words carefully into Lore's map) behind them nearly a week ago, and they had seen many changes in the land.

The desert had shifted into empty plains, which had melted into scrubland, which had melted into this wild, flat landscape that was roamed by enormous wildcats and thousands of the horse-cattle, and soon they would reach the impossibly vast Lake of Mirrors.

_This is as far as the Army of Leaves came, _Arya thought, carefully shielding it from Faolin. _They crossed this very land, and then died on the lakeshore. _

She wondered how many of the five hundred had been lost before reaching the lake, how many of them were afraid, how many were leaning forward eagerly, seeking the next adventure.

_We mustn't drink the lake water, _she said, reminding Murtagh and Raltin.

The other Riders nodded, accepting, and the dragons flew on. So far they had only drunk water they pulled from the ground, but they had decided that they wouldn't drink during their stay at the lake just to be safe.

Arya didn't like the idea of water that could make her lose her mind.

_It'll be alright, _Faolin promised. _We'll be careful. _

_I know, _she said. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. The feeling, like a shadow over the sun, had been following her ever since their first night out of the desert, when the spirits had flown down to speak with them.

The phoenix feather tingled in Arya's pack. She could feel it constantly now, whether she was holding it or not, a tickle in the back of her mind. She didn't know why the spirits had restored some life to the feather, though they hadn't mended it. Perhaps it was a gift, like the gilded lilies, the spirits' way of thanking her for killing a Shade.

They'd done something to Zar'roc too, though, and Murtagh had never slain a Shade.

But who knew how spirits thought? They were higher beings, made up entirely of magic. Their ways and knowledge could not be known, even to an elf and Dragon Rider.

The phoenix feather had life in it again, for another few months at least. The spirits had given them _time, _and for that Arya would be forever grateful.

_We can make it, _she thought. Before, with the feather fading, she hadn't been sure. It had taken them two weeks to get this far, flying several hours a day, and they still did not know how much farther they had left. It took take a month to get to the golden forest, but now that the feather wasn't faded, Arya wasn't nearly as worried.

_We can do this, _she thought, silently urging Faolin faster. _We can do this. We have time. _

They flew on.

The dry grasslands gradually grew brighter, the faded pale grass gradually darkening and turning into a rich, waving gold, then deep, heaving seas of amber.

They flew for hours, until Faolin's wings burned and the sun slid down behind them, blazing out over the golden grasses like fire.

The sun seemed closer to the earth here, Arya noticed. It seemed bigger, brighter, and was rarely obscured by the clouds. It was beautiful, and she couldn't help but think that, someday, she might like to live out here.

_There's the lake, _Murtagh said. Arya could see the shore now, a shimmering dark line getting closer and closer, and it stretched over all the eastern horizon like a sea.

The dragons touched down next to it, and Arya could scarcely believe it. It was _enormous, _larger by far than any lake Arya had ever seen.

She hastily pulled the map out of her packs, careful not to destroy the ancient thing. According to Caspar's map, the Lake of Mirrors stretched as far north and south as Dras Leona to Teirm. She could scarcely wrap her head around that. A lake of that size was a miniature ocean, vast and wild and wonderful.

She wanted to explore it, to sail on it and swim in the minds of fishes below the surface. She wanted to dive in it with Faolin and never resurface, because she, like all elves, _loved _the water, and this was a lot of water.

Eagerly, Arya stretched out her mind, searching for fish to see with, and then she frowned.

There were no fish in the Lake of Mirrors.

The waters were still and empty of all life, from fish to even the tiniest of floating plants. Arya stretched her mind out as far as she could, scanning the lake for miles up and down, and no matter where she went, there was nothing.

Nothing lived in the Lake of Mirrors.

_Murtagh, _she whispered, horrified. _Murtagh, it's _empty.

Of course he didn't understand like she did—he had not been raised in the forest of Du Weldenvarden, where the trees sang and all forms of life walked up to the elves to play. _She _had been raised with life thrumming inside her always, just a thought away, and the Lake was an abomination against that.

_Don't be scared, _Faolin said. He curled around her protectively. _I'll keep you safe. _

_Thank you, _she said, patting his scales. Her hand shook. _I'm fine, little one. _

Her dragon rumbled, nosing her fondly. He wasn't actually that little anymore. They'd been traveling for over a fortnight and in that time he had grown again. He was nearly four months old and larger than a horse now, standing about as tall as Murtagh at the shoulder. His teeth were as long as daggers and his claws sharp and strong, and his strange curved tail whistled through the air.

He wasn't her little one anymore.

Picking up on her feelings, Faolin nosed her gently. _It'll be okay, _he promised. _We're going to get Eragon back. _

Arya smiled.

_Yes, _she said. _Yes we are. _

She buried her fear of the still, empty water and joined Murtagh and Raltin as they set up a campfire. They had no food, but a simple spell stopped their hunger—they'd eat again once they reached the other side of the lake.

"So there's nothing in the water?" Murtagh asked, and Arya could tell he was feeling it out for himself.

"Nothing," Arya said flatly.

The red Rider frowned.

"It feels like the caves," Raltin added. He didn't seem particularly bothered by it. "The deeper ones, anyway. Not much lives down there."

"I wonder where all the fish are."

"Not even the fish," Arya said. "Where are all the plants, the algae, the tiny little life forms that make up a lake? There's _nothing _down there."

She suppressed a shiver.

Murtagh was quite for a while, face still. "Remember what Lore said? About the water being madness? An entire army of elves was lost here."

"There's something wrong with the water," she murmured. "Look at it. It's unnatural."

And it was. The water stretched on forever but it was totally and completely still, unmoved by wind or air or even the magic she pressed on it, to see if it would ripple. The water stayed like glass.

Behind Arya, Faolin went suddenly, terribly stiff and she felt fear spread in him. Alarmed, Arya reached out to touch his mind but he shut her out, green eyes flashing apologetically.

The Lake of Mirrors remained still in front them.

"Come on," she said suddenly, unable to bear the disturbed silence that fell over the party. "Let's find another place to camp, one not to close to the lakeshore."

No one argued and they broke camp, healing the grass and climbing onto their dragons again, taking wing and heading backwards away from the still, empty water.

_Faolin, _Arya tried. _What's wrong? Why are you afraid?_

She caught flashes of fear and anger in his thoughts, as well as fragments of what might have been a dream, but her dragon hid them and did not respond.

_Faolin?_

_I'm sorry, _he said. _I don't want to talk about it. _

Arya knew instinctively that pressing the matter would get her nowhere. These last few weeks she'd learned that Faolin was a remarkably stubborn creature, and when he got it in his mind to do or not do something, he held to it.

_Foolish creature, _she said, sending waves of affection his way.

He hummed, and they let the matter drop.

Arya didn't forget it, though. She didn't forget anything.

They flew a mile back into the grassy plains and settled down, forming camp again. Arya felt better here, away from the unnaturally lifeless water.

The last of the sun slid down over the western horizon, turning the plains dark. Out there she could hear the lowing of the horse-cows and the roars of some large predator. The dragons circled them, forming a gleaming wall of scales, and Arya leaned against Faolin and felt warmth spread through her.

"Tell us a story," she said suddenly, meeting Murtagh's icy eyes.

He blinked at her, confused.

"You said you dreamed of these places. So tell us a story about what you've seen. We can all share."

The red Rider stared.

_What? _Arya thought, suppressing a niggle of irritation. Elves loved stories. They raised their children on them, tales of the forest, of adventures, of great heroes and thinkers who belonged to the Fairest of Folk. Perhaps the love of storytelling came from a godless culture—the elves had no gods, no creators to speak of, so they spoke only of their own people, the greatest heroes and villains, the brave, the cowardly, the beautiful.

Arya loved stories, and she suddenly wanted to hear one very much.

Murtagh blinked at her, looking uncertain, and she encouraged him with the tiniest of smiles.

He took a deep breath, and began.

"The plains were once full of people," he said, and his eyes were far away, remembering a dream. "Wild people, who ran with the wild beasts and wore their skins, and they were neither elf nor dwarf. They ran with the wild animals and hunted them and lived with them, and one day, their chief approached Caspar.

"He spoke the ancient language, for all living things did, and he took Caspar by the hand and guided him through the wild.

"'My name is He Who Runs in the Sky,' the chief introduced himself. 'I am here to show you the truth, which is this; we are the children of the sky,' the chief said. 'In our blood we carry the gods.'

"'Gods?' said Caspar, for he was an elf and elves do not believe in gods.

"The chief only nodded. 'The Great Ones,' he said, pointing at the sky. 'The Lord Flame who heats the world, the Lady Water who gives us drink, the Lord Earth for us to walk on, and the Lady Air for us to breathe. And the Lord Ice, whose breath is winter, who takes our souls and holds them tight.'

"Caspar did not argue with this strange chief, for he felt that he was a stranger in this land and he should not berate them for their customs. But he could not help but scoff at this being for his foolishness, for turning to gods when simple observation could explain away the mysteries of the world.

" You come from far away,' the chief said, as he led Caspar deeper. 'You come from the land of blood and tears.'

"'I come from Alagaesia,' Caspar replied, offended. 'From the great cities and forests.'

"'Great cities, bah,' said the chief. 'What do you know of greatness? You live with your eyes closed to the world around you, even though you have been given the will to see it!'

"Confused, Caspar asked the strange being what he meant.

"'Power,' said the chief, tapping his nose. Sparks flared at his fingers. 'Magic, to see the world as it will be and change it.'

"'I know greatness,' Caspar said, defending his people. 'I have fought dragons, battled flame and fang and claw. I have destroyed ravening beasts with my voice and I have made the very air bend to me. I have great power and a great people.'

"'You have blood,' the chief countered. 'You have power that you use to shed blood, honest power that can raise trees from the earth and flowers from the sky. What do you know of greatness, you who wastes your power, you who attacks and destroys your fellow sky-brothers with it? You know nothing of greatness! You are blind!'

"'Blind?'

"'Blind,' said the strange chief. 'You have been gifted with great power, and you close your eyes to the One who gave it to you. How will you get where you are going if you do not believe in it?'

"And the chief pulled the stunned Caspar on, to a deep, still pool of water. 'Here,' he said. 'Take your power and look into my pool, and tell me you do not see the face.'

"Confused, Caspar leaned in and whispered _see, _and peered into the water. For a long time, he saw nothing but his own face and the chief's, reflected in the pool. When he was about to cancel the spell and give up, he saw a flash of light.

"Stunned, Caspar looked deeper, past his reflection into the water. He saw a great many things, dragons and elves, cities, empires, trees, life, death. He saw the world born and the world die, and he saw endless sky and swirling light, and the light had eyes, had the face of the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever seen, and the face of the fiercest dragoness, and the sturdiest she-dwarf. This face smiled at Caspar, and then she was gone.

"Caspar fell back, his power broken but alive, and he cried, over and over again, 'I see, I see, I see'… And the chief named him He Who Has Seen and sent Caspar, forever changed, on his way again."

Murtagh's voice dwindled, and Arya blinked the film of the story out of her eyes.

"When did you dream that?" she asked quietly, and Murtagh looked vaguely troubled.

"Just now, I think," he said. He looked disturbed, and Thorn nosed him, whispering comforts.

"That was a beautiful story," Arya said solemnly. "Thank you."

Honor to the storyteller was one of the highest laws of elves, and Murtagh blinked, surprised. He smiled a little, accepting her praise.

"What about you?" he said. "Do you have a story?"

Arya nodded, thinking. She settled on one of the tales of Eragon the First.

"Once upon a time," she began, calling the story up from the depths of memory, "when the Order of Riders was still very young, Eragon the First and Bid'daum went to the sea. They were still young, hardly more than children, and their hearts burned underneath the restraints of leadership and peacekeeping. They longed for great adventures, for worlds beyond their own, and they resented the burdens they had shouldered.

"So one night when the new Riders were sleeping, Eragon and Bid'daum flew across Alagaesia to see the ocean, for all elves are called by the waves. They heard the call and could not resist it, and soon they hovered over the sea." A chill shuddered down Arya's spine and for a moment, she thought she heard an ocean.

"They flew over the sea for many days, circling it, diving in it, playing, as the young do, in the salty waters. For the first time in their young lives, they felt free.

"Bid'daum decided that he did not want to go back. He wanted to go on, to go where no dragon had gone before, to see the elves' homeland and what lay beyond that. Eragon agreed with his dragon. There were other Riders now, why did they need to go back? At last they were happy.

"And so they decided to fly out over the sea and never return.

"They left at the beginning of winter, when the ice was starting to settle over the northern seas, and walked and flew across them. They found many fantastic islands and many new things, and for many months, they were happy.

"But one night, when they were near the elves' homeland, Eragon the First had a dream. He dreamed he was in a golden forest, walking with Bid'daum towards the light, and behind him was the people he had left behind. The Dragon Riders, corrupt without him to guide them, had turned on both dragon and elf and war raged again, threatening to consume the land.

"Distressed, Eragon and Bid'daum gave up their dreams of adventure and returned to Alagaesia, just in time to stop Eragon's dream from coming to pass.

"Though they still longed for the sea, Eragon and Bid'daum decided that they would never again leave their Dragon Riders, for the world needed them _there, _to guide, to lead, and protect. Their hearts cried out for freedom, but they remained.

"They lived for two thousand years, guiding, protecting, and leading, and when it was time for them to die, they flew out to sea, on and on until Bid'daum's wings could carry them no longer, and they sank to the ocean and died."

Arya fell silent, and everyone watched her raptly.

_That's so said, _Faolin said. _They had to give up everything they wanted. _

_No, _Arya said, surprised. She supposed, since no one here but she was raised on Rider stories, that they didn't quite understand the meaning of it. "No, it isn't a sad story. Yes, Eragon the First and Bid'daum gave up their dreams, but they did so for the good of others. They _chose _to stay, and keep the peace, and in the end, they died happily. That is all one can ask for in life; dignity, honor, and then a happy death. Their lives are the model for all the elves."

"Interesting," Murtagh said, canting his head. "I never thought of that. I was taught that life is to _live, _to survive."

Arya shrugged. "For some."

"But not for Eragon," the red Rider murmured, and Arya wasn't sure to which Eragon he was referring.

_Both of them, _Faolin said, his young eyes gleaming. Something was stirring in the depths of his mind, something she could not name, and it felt like warmth and light.

_Perhaps. _

The Dragon Riders leaned on their dragons and swapped stories long into the night, until the stars shone and the moon rose high, and a mile away, as if sensing their presence, the Lake of Mirrors began to stir.

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**Okay, so we've got a creepy lake and three unprepared Dragon Riders. Wonder what happens next?**

**A note on the stories: Murtagh's tale is more important at this moment, as it comes into play much sooner than Arya's story does, but don't forget hers either! They're both important!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	35. Chapter Thirty Four: Hammer and Fang

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Oh what a tangled web we weave… when first we practice to deceive." –Walter Scott, _Marmion_

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Chapter Thirty-four: Hammer and Fang

A week after his sparring match with Jared the swordsman, Roran was the most popular man in the camp.

He supposed all the others had been right, when they told him he had a gift. He could sway people to his side, _speak _to them, win their friendship and loyalty. He didn't even need to be a Rider to do it. He just spoke, and no matter what, no matter who he was with, people listened.

Well, everyone except Derek, that is.

The Red Guard's Captain was the only man Roran had ever met who seemed above his powers of persuasion, except perhaps for Murtagh.

Yes, that was a good comparison; Captain Derek was like Murtagh.

Both were solid men, quiet, reserved, as if they were carved from stone. They didn't seem to feel things like normal people, not anger or hatred or pain or joy of any kind. They were the reserved ones, the ones you had to watch out for, vipers in the nest, wolves in sheep's clothing.

Yes, Captain Derek was like Murtagh, and Roran's dislike of the man deepened every day.

Actually, Derek might be _worse _than Murtagh, because the red Rider at least appeared to care for the safety of his Rider clan. Derek didn't care about the men under his command at all. He trained them until they were weak and shaking, berated them, sent them out into the frozen woods alone and shivering. In the past week Roran had seen one man die of exposure and two more brought to death's door because of Derek's demands, and the Captain didn't seem to care at all.

It was amazing that the Red Guard was still alive, after being with this man for months.

Roran learned that the Red Guard used to keep the peace in Uru'baen; they were like the city's constables and guardsmen who kept order and settled disputes. But after Eragon escaped, they were in disgrace because they let his companions escape also.

As punishment, Galbatorix banished them to this far-flung outpost and intended to use them as foot soldiers, mere sacrifices for coming battles.

For Derek, who had been their captain for many years, this was a terrible blow. He felt the disgrace was on him personally and so he pushed the Red Guard, driving them to improve even though he often pushed them too far. He was a man who desperately wanted his honor back and the lives of mere foot soldiers were just a way to reclaim that honor, nothing more.

He didn't care that those foot soldiershad families, lives, dreams of a better future. They were little more than fighting cattle to him, and for Roran that was inexcusable.

Derek was a Therinsford man, a northerner. Therinsford wasn't that much richer than Caravahall. Many of its people still starved in the winter and suffered underneath the cruelty of the tax collectors. Surely Derek knew what it was like to be treated as a talking cow, like an insect under a boot. He had no excuse for the way he treated his men.

And yet he treated his men as the tax collectors treated villagers.

It was disgusting.

But now Roran had the Red Guard on his side. They respected him, treated him as a brother in arms, and followed his decisions and actions over any other.

Even Jared, whose position as unofficial leader Roran had taken, didn't seem to have any ill-will towards his successor. In fact, the two men had become fast friends and enjoyed sparring and drinking together.

"Tell me about your family," Jared said one night, blinking away the frost. He and Roran were on guard together, watching the shifting snows for any sign of enemies, and it was so cold both men thought their bones would crack open.

Roran looked at him sideways.

"I know they're all dead now," Jared said, "and I know it hurts, but it's good for you to talk about them, you know? To get it out of your head."

Somewhere in the darkness, Roran thought he saw the blue and ivory flash of his nightmare's skin. Strange, how his dead father was now his worst enemy.

"M' father," Roran said, because he couldn't stop himself, "was dead 'fore I got back. I saw his body and it was—"

He stopped. He knew he should lie to Jared, should tell him that his 'father' had been butchered by Urgals. But he didn't _want _to lie to his new friend. He liked Jared. He liked having the other man's respect and friendship, and friends did not lie to each other.

"It was bad," he said. "He was badly burned all over. An' my cousin—"

He stopped again, and Jared jostled him. "Relax," the soldier said. "It's alright. They're in a peaceful place now."

Roran grinned lopsidedly. "Y'think? Everyone was—I saw so many people dead." _Friends, neighbors, people I grew up with, who died defending _me, _keeping me from the Empire. _"Friends, neighbors. Th' tavern keeper, th' tanner's wife, whole _families _who couldn' get away."

"And your family," Jared said gently. "Captain said you were married."

"M' wife," Roran murmured. He should lie to this man, he _wanted _to lie to this man, to make it easier, but he couldn't. "She was pregnant, y'know. Tha's why we got married. We were gonna wait, 'til I had a farm of m' own, 'til I could take care of us, but she got pregnant, an' I married her." He stopped again, shaking his head like he couldn't—wouldn't—go on.

Jared patted Roran's arm. "There? Don't you feel a little better?"

Roran shrugged. He supposed he did, in his own way. He hadn't been able to share his thoughts with anyone since Eragon's death, because Katrina was half a world away and he didn't want to share with his fellows in the Varden, all of whom had their own pains.

"What 'bout you?" Roran said, turning to his new friend. "Y' got a story t' tell?"

Jared smiled crookedly. "You could say that."

"Wanna share?"

The swordsman shrugged. "I'm from Uru'baen," he said. "Lower City. Poor place, the Lower City. My family hovered on the edge of starvation 'til I got a job in the Guard. I lost all of 'em, my parents, my sisters, my grandfather, in the White Breath six summers ago."

Roran shuddered. He remembered the White Breath. It was a terrible sickness that took whole households at a time, destroying them slowly, leaving them fevered, pale, and coughing hard enough that ribs popped and blood dribbled from the corners of mouths. In Carvahall, two entire families died and the third infected was forced out into the Spine so she could not infect anyone else.

That one person had been Roran's mother, Marian.

Garrow had found her three weeks later, dead of the White Breath, gnawed almost down to the bone by wolves, foxes, and crows. That summer Garrow had gone cold inside, and he'd never been the same.

The illness had been terrible for Carvahall, but in a big city like Uru'baen, with people packed in like berries on gathering day? The White Breath would be nearly unstoppable. Any and all infected would surely die, especially in the poor Lower City.

Roran felt for the man.

"'m sorry," he said hoarsely.

Jared shrugged bitterly. "I've mended. 'sides, sometimes I think it's better they died in sickness than in the riots, or from starvation, or from a purge. I hear the sickness is peaceful, at the end. At least they had that."

"Aye," Roran said, thinking of his own father thrashing against burning wounds or his mother alone in the Spine, waiting to die, or Eragon thrown down screaming with a lightning bolt in his chest.

"Buck up, man," Jared murmured, fixing his eyes out in the swirling snow. "It's not gonna get any better."

_Now is the time, _Roran thought. "M'be," he said carefully, "it will get better."

Jared laughed. "Oh? And how's that going to happen, with all this war and death and the monsters turned loose on us?"

Roran shrugged. "If th' war's won."

"By us?"

He shrugged again, carefully casual, betraying nothing. _I am not a Varden supporter. I am not Roran Stronghammer. _

Jared didn't say anything but the expression on his face was thoughtful, and the two men lapsed into silence.

Out in the cold forest, there was a high, lonely howl, and every hair on Roran's neck stood straight up.

_It's just a wolf, _he thought, nervously wrapping his fingers around his hammer. _Only a wolf. _

Another howl trembled on the air, jerking Jared out of his thoughts. He peered into the darkness, squinting at the frosty shadows, and shot Roran a glance. "Sound like your Hound?" he murmured.

Roran shrugged and this time it was jerky, wound tight and tense. "No," he lied.

There was another howl, and then another and another, as if the wolf—or wolves—was coming closer.

In the shadowy woods, Roran saw Garrow stand up, blue and ivory, and flash a wormy smile.

His blood ran cold.

"Jared, get back into the camp," he said.

"But Captain said—"

"_Now,_" Roran bit out in his commander's voice, and Jared obeyed, hastily darting inside the (terribly flimsy) gate.

Out in the woods the wolves—there was definitely more than one, he could hear them—howled again, closer, closer.

"Lock the gate!" he bellowed. The two men manning it swung the log gate shut, clicking the latch. People began to gather, milling about curiously, trying to see what the commotion was.

"Cadoc," Jared said, hand gripping his sword hilt. "What's going on?"

Roran did not answer, choosing instead to lean forward and peer between the slats of the gate. Out in the white forest, nothing but shadows moved. He squinted, struggling to see.

His breath caught in his throat.

A Hound, snow-white with flashing red eyes and gleaming silver fangs, prowled to the edges of the shadows, fixing its horrible gaze on the camp.

And then another came to stand beside the first, and another, and another. Soon five massive Hounds stood in front of the Red Guard's camp, tails twitching, eyes gleaming. Other men who peered through the gate and fences groaned, fear flooding through them.

"The Hounds," a man whispered.

In that second, Roran knew that none of them believed the beasts were Galbatorix's pet monsters. How could they be? They looked like they were made of snow and ice, sleek, gleaming, deadly, beyond the hand of a man.

"Someone call the Captain," another soldier said faintly.

"Maybe they won't attack us," Jared muttered in Roran's ear. "Maybe they'll just go away."

Somehow, Roran thought that was a very slim chance. "Go to your tents," he said lowly, powerfully. "Arm yourselves with whatever you have. Form groups of ten and _stay with those groups. _No one fight these beasts alone."

"Should we defend the fence?"

"No," Roran said. "Get to the center of camp and form defensive circles. Fences aren't going to hold them back."

The Red Guard rushed to obey, glad that the Hound-killer was taking charge.

_Where is Derek?_

Roran slowly opened the gates, and the Hounds' eyes fell on him. _Why would you do that? _Those horrible red eyes asked.

_So they won't be destroyed, _he thought, grabbing his hammer. He was already in armor, since he had been on duty, and Jared stood faithfully at his side.

The Hounds snarled and waited.

_What are they waiting for?_

_Fear, _whispered a little voice in Roran's head. _They want you to be afraid. _

The first Hound snarled, dropping its head and baring its teeth.

"Back up," Roran muttered to Jared, stepping back slowly, carefully. The Hound took a step forward, one to match every step Roran took back.

"You have slain my kin," the Hound snarled, its voice unnaturally deep and furious. Jared swore softly. "You have spilt our blood, which has not been spilled since before the Rider's Fall. You are a brave man, but you have committed a sin against the Hounds, against Death Himself."

"I was attacked," Roran said loudly, fearlessly. "I was only defending myself."

"You refused to surrender the Fire to us," the Hound rumbled. Its fellows were advancing too, licking their silver teeth. An idea sparked in the depths of Roran's mind. "You did not surrender him, and so you were attacked."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, even though he maybe did. He remembered burning in his gut and red, coal-rimmed eyes, and teeth and tongues made of fire and a voice whispering inside him.

But that heat was gone—Roran hadn't felt it since his fight with the first Hound. Whatever it had been, it had left him.

The Hound snarled, creeping closer, and it was the size of a horse like the last one, huge and terrible. "We are here to kill you, Fireson," it said. "And all of these soldiers who defy our master."

Roran and Jared were near the center of camp now and the Hound was through the gates, its crimson-eyed companions growling gleefully. "We'll fight you," he said.

"You'll lose."

Roran curled his hand around his hammer, feeling the familiar weight, the steady strength. He was afraid but he wouldn't back down.

"Jared," he said quietly. "I need you to get to the healer's tent and ask him for my other sword."

"Cadoc?"

Roran already had a sword slung around his waist, but Jensen the healer would understand.

"Go," Roran said, and Jared did.

The Hounds watched him, snarling softly to themselves. Roran backed into the circle of armed, bristling men, raising his own weapon at the lead beast.

_Where is Derek?_

The Hounds threw back their great heads and howled, chilling Roran and the men to the bone. "For our fallen brother!" they roared, and leaped forward, fangs and fur flashing.

"Stay in groups!" Roran bawled, tensing for impact. "Work together!"

The Hounds fell on the Red Guard savagely, blurs of white and silver and crimson.

Instantly men fell to the side, torn by great claws and poisonous fangs, and screams and howls rent the frozen air.

Roran surged to meet the first Hound, howling a war cry, hammer drawn. He met the beast head-on, bashing its face aside. It twisted, staggering only for a second in the snow before its crushed face healed.

The Hound turned, lunging again, fangs flashing, and Roran hit the snow, letting the creature sail over him. It landed, snarling, and turned again with frightening speed, this time trying to claw his throat out. Roran battered one hoof-sized paw down and the claws raked across his armor with a screech, scattering sparks.

It snarled and bit at him again and again, but each time Roran managed to push it aside with a blow, breaking its bones. Those bones cracked and then flowed back together each time, the Hound coming back stronger and stronger, terrible in its fury.

The wind howled above the camp and snow and ice lashed at the men, echoing the snarling, sharp-toothed monsters.

Roran pounded at his Hound and that strange, silvery blood splattered the ground. The Hound yelped and howled, clawing at him. It nicked his shoulders, his sides, his legs, any place it could reach, and managed to tear some armor from his arms.

Before it could sink its teeth in, Roran raised his hammer high and cracked it down on the Hound's skull. The beast screamed and fell, twitching as blood and bone mixed together.

"Cadoc!" Jared came crashing through the battlefield, Roran's silver Hound fang raised aloft.

"Throw it and find a group!" Roran bellowed, stretching out his hand. The beast at his feet twitched, rising, healing, already shaking off the hammer blow.

Jared threw the fang Roran caught it, grabbing the broken base like a dagger. He spun, following the Hound's movements, eyes narrowed and savage.

The Hound saw the fang and snarled furiously, its whole body shaking.

"You dare use the fangs of my brother!" it howled, its own silvery teeth flashing.

"I earned it," Roran shouted, and lunged, hammer and fang raised high.

He and the beast collided, rolling over on the frozen earth. The Hound clawed and snapped, its teeth missing him by mere inches, and Roran beat at it again and again, cracking bones and showering himself with fog-colored blood. He broke ribs, legs, jaws, spines, again and again, trying to break the beast so badly he could have time to _kill _it once and for all.

Finally he got the advantage by crushing the Hound's neck. It choked and wheezed, eyes bulging, and rolled off of the general to heal, but Roran didn't let it. He hit its throat again, felling the creature, and raised the silver fang high.

Without pausing to think he brought it down right through one of the Hound's great crimson eyes. It plunged easily through the soft tissue, straight into the beast's brain. It howled once, limbs thrashing, silvery blood billowing up from its eye and mouth and ruined throat, and then it died.

Roran stood, pulling the fang free.

The rest of the Red Guard was not faring so well. The remaining Hounds wreaked havoc on the men, tearing flesh apart effortlessly. The soldiers were falling out of defensive formation, scattering in their panic.

"Pull together!" Roran bellowed above the din. He charged into the fray, rallying men around him. "Circles! Form circles! Interlock arms!"

What was left of the Red Guard obeyed, linking arms together to form solid, tight rings of bristling steel. The Hounds threw themselves at these rings but could not break them, receiving only pricks and stabs for their troubles.

The beasts snarled and circled, noticing their fellow's dead body and howling together in rage.

"Aim for the eyes!" Roran shouted. He was interlocked with Jared and Tak the archer. Once he realized this, he nudged the man and nodded at a platform a few feet away. Tak saw and nodded, face pale and blood-splattered. _We'll get you there, _Roran mouthed, and brandished the fang.

"Come on," he cried. The Hounds circled and snarled. "Archers! Follow Tak to the platform!"

At once, the archers broke from their circles and charged for the platform. The Hounds lunged at them, gleefully intending to pick them off.

"Forward!" Roran bellowed, dragging his circle towards the beasts. The rest of the soldiers hesitated but surged, pricking and stabbing at the Hounds to protect the archers.

"Aim for the eyes!"

Roran raised his Hound's fang and struck again, stabbing one of the monsters in the face. It howled but he missed its eye, and the wound slowly fizzled and flowed back together.

The other soldiers were starting to get the idea, however, working together to stab and slash at the Hounds' snarling faces. Another beast fell, pierced with a blade, and a mighty roar went up among the soldiers.

The archers got themselves situated and fired steadily, arrows whizzing and striking white fur. Another Hound fell with a bolt in its eye and the men roared again, rallying.

Now there were only two Hounds snapping and snarling furiously, and the wind picked up speed until it tore through their armor and left them shaking.

The Hounds retreated a little, backing up and snarling, pulling together. "You'll pay for this," they snarled. "Our kind will hunt you to the ends of the earth."

Roran stepped forward, breaking his circle.

"What if we cut you a deal," he said.

"We do not make deals with mortals," one said immediately.

"Why? You are mortal too."

The Hound stopped snarling.

"What if we let you live?" Roran continued. "What if we let you go back to your Master unharmed? The Fire you're looking for is not here. It is gone. Go hunt it."

"You have slain our brothers."

"And you have slain mine," the general said, gesturing at the dead bodies. "We have spilled enough blood here today. Go hunt your Fire. Live. Leave us in peace."

One of the Hounds snarled angrily, clearly intending to argue, but the other stepped forward, knocking its companion aside. "Do you swear to let us go?" it asked.

Roran nodded. "If you swear that you, and all of your brothers, will never attack us again, we will let you go."

The two Hounds snarled at each other, speaking rapidly, and then the Hound raised its head again, crimson eyes flashing. "We accept, little human," it rumbled. "You are an honorable man. You will hold to your promise."

And then it stepped forward until it was nose to nose with Roran, studying him curiously. "I am called Rarir. From this day on, our kind will call you Fang-brother, He Who Fights." It raised a huge paw and bit it, letting the silver blood steam to the surface. It blinked expectantly and Roran slit open his own hand.

"We will not be your enemies," he said, and pressed his hand to its paw. At once the blood sizzled and he hissed, biting down a cry. It _hurt, _like someone was pouring ice into his arm, and then the Hound pulled its paw away.

"You hold a contract with the Hounds," Rarir rumbled. "Do not break that contract."

"I will not."

The beast bowed its head, stepping backwards to rejoin its companion. "Farewell, little Fang-brother."

And then it was gone.

At once the Red Guard burst into shouts, crowding around Roran, babbling in awe and fear and exhaustion.

"You saved us," Jared said. "We would have died without your orders."

Roran waved him off, wincing at his burning hand.

"Oh yes," said a familiar voice, and the Guard fell silent again. Captain Derek shouldered his way through the crowd, eyes gleaming.

"Where were you?" Roran snapped, before he could stop himself. A commander was not supposed to hide while his men fought and died. A commander couldn't lead from behind. He had to be in the middle of the fight, beside his men, leading them with courage and strength.

Derek had not done that. He hadn't been in the battle. He'd left them to fight on their own.

"It don't matter where I was," the Captain said smoothly. "At least I have not lied to my friends."

Roran's blood ran cold.

"You all heard the man speak," Derek continued. "Just now, with the monsters. Did he sound like he was from Yazuac?"

Murmuring broke out among the Guard and every eye turned to Roran, seeing him in a new light.

_Oh shit, _he thought, and swallowed.

"This man is not Cadoc Sloansson, a Yazuac survivor." Derek raised his sword, black fury and wild light shining in his face. "He is Roran Stronghammer, the General of the Varden!"


	36. Chapter Thirty Five: The Lake of Mirrors

**Hello, mah bbs. How are you tonight? Good, I hope? A quick note: this chapter has three different POVs, but settles into one for most of the story. :) Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Everything was black in the harbor, but there were still some fires burning on the ships." –Barney Ross

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Chapter Thirty-five: The Lake of Mirrors

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_Murtagh was dreaming. He was walking along the lakeshore, side by side with Tornac, and he was smiling widely, happier than he could remember being._

"_So I hear you're marrying your girl," Tornac said, smiling gently. "Good for you, lad. Good for you."_

_Murtagh nodded, blissfully happy. "Tomorrow," he said. "You'll be there, right?"_

"_Wouldn't miss it for anything, my boy," Tornac promised. "It's not every day my favorite student gets married, now is it?"_

"_Will Mother be there?"_

"_Oh, I'd imagine so. She's very excited, you know. Thought you were never going to work up the courage to ask Nasuada."_

_Murtagh's smile widened. "Eragon's holding the ceremony," he said. _

"_A Rider wedding, eh? Sounds wonderful, lad, sounds wonderful. And is that your blushing bride I see?"_

_Tornac pointed out onto the Lake and Murtagh shielded his eyes against the bright sun. _

_Nasuada stood out on the water, wearing a beautiful, flowing dress. Rubies glittered in her hair and around her neck and she waved, grinning. _

"_She's beautiful," Tornac said, walking out on the water to join her. Murtagh watched him go interestedly—how was he doing that?_

_Others joined Tornac and Nasuada out on the water. Selena, beautiful as always, Eragon and Saphira, Thorn, the rest of the Rider clan, even Raltin and Arya, a whole cluster of people that he loved, fiercely, and would do anything for._

_They smiled at him, and then they sank._

_Startled, Murtagh ran out to them, finding that he could easily stand on the water, for the surface was hard like glass. He reached the spot where they had fallen through and stared down. _

_They were reflected back at him, just underneath the water's hard surface, smiling and waving and reaching for him. Murtagh crouched, pressing his fingers to the water. It did not yield, but on the other side Nasuada pressed her fingers towards his, until they were separated only by the hard lake. _

"_Come," she mouthed. He could not hear her voice and suddenly he _needed _to. "Come."_

_He shoved against the smooth surface harder, seeking a hole, a flaw that he could break through. _

"_Come."_

"_I'm trying!" he shouted, pushing. He dropped down onto all fours, pressing, lying flat against the glass and shouting a spell to push him through, and at last he was sinking slowing through the barrier, his fingers brushing Nasuada's, the tip of his nose hitting icy water—_

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_Arya was dreaming. She was walking across the still Lake of Mirrors on what seemed to be a sheet of ice—it was hard and cold, but she could see through it—and she shivered lightly in the wind. _

"_Here," Eragon said, throwing a cloak over her shoulders._

_She turned, surprised, and he grinned at her. _

"_Better?"_

_Struck wordless, Arya could only nod. Eragon was _there, _walking beside her, and she wanted to reach out and touch him but he couldn't be real, he was _dead—

"_Thank you for saving me," Eragon said, still grinning. _

"_We—I saved you? We reached the Vault of Souls and brought you back?"_

_Eragon nodded, dark hair flopping. "You did," he told her. "And I can never thank you enough. You came for me. You didn't leave me there."_

_Arya stared, mesmerized. Had they really done it? Brought Eragon back from the dead? He was _right there _beside her, so they must've succeeded, and she couldn't stop a smile from breaking across her face. _

_They'd done it! They'd brought Eragon back from the Vault of Souls. He was alive again. He was with her again, and now everything would be okay. _

"_I would never leave you," she swore, and he nodded._

"_I know."_

_There was a sharp crack behind her and Arya turned, startled. There was nothing, but when she turned back, Eragon was gone._

"_Eragon?"_

_Arya looked down, below the smooth ice covering the water. Eragon was beneath it, blinking and smiling up at her, his hands pressed against the ice. _

_Arya dropped to her knees, trying to reach him. Her fingers dug into the ice but it would not yield to her. She pushed harder, determined, desperate to get at Eragon, and in the water she saw stirrings of others she had known:_

_Her mother, running to embrace her._

_Faolin the elf, a Black Morning Glory outstretched._

_Her father the Elf King, alive and whole. _

_Faolin the dragon, swimming towards her, his green eyes alight. _

_And Eragon, pressed against the ice, his body molded to hers but for the barrier between them._

_Arya bared her teeth. She would not let anything come between them again. _

"_Jeirda!" she snapped, and the ice broke apart, and she started to sink—_

* * *

_Raltin was dreaming. He was flying high above the Lake of Mirrors, feeling the cold wind slip around him, and Talon hummed, at peace for once. _

_Below him the Lake spread out smooth and wild, reflecting his image up at him. He liked the look of himself and Talon in the water, proud, strong, _powerful.

_They were dragon and Rider. Mighty, fearless, revered and feared by all who beheld them. They had respect. They had courage. They had strong hearts full of righteous fury and the will to crush their enemies. _

_Talon drifted lower and Raltin leaned over his dragon's side, peering curiously into the depths of the Lake. In it he saw himself astride Talon, dressed richly like a King, and the other Riders, Erik, Sunna, Vé, even Arya, followed him adoringly. He was their leader, the strongest, the most respected, and from his hand dangled the head of Galbatorix—_

"_I would not do that, if I were you," said a new, powerful voice, drifting across the Lake._

_Raltin froze and realized that he'd just been about to jump from Talon's back into the water and that beautiful dream. He frowned, looking around. "Hello?_

"_Over here, young Rider."_

_On the lakeshore stood a tall, richly dressed man, and he waved to Raltin. _

_Raltin blinked, and then he was no longer on his dragon's back, he was only a few feet away from the newcomer. "Who are you?" he asked, more curious than angry._

"_A friend," the man assured him. His dark eyes glittered and his teeth flashed, bright against his rich brown skin. _

"_Why'd you tell me to stop?"_

_The man smiled. "It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Your friends have already fallen under its spell."_

"_My friends?"_

"_The other two Riders," the man explained. "They're not as clever as you, it would seem. You might want to wake up now and save them, or they'll die…"_

"_Wait!" Raltin shouted, for his new friend was already starting to disappear. "Who are you?"_

"_Don't worry!" the man called back, fading faster and faster until he was a pair of dark eyes and bright teeth. "I will meet you again, my friend!"_

_And then he was gone and Raltin stumbled towards the Lake, shaking, feeling himself start to wake up—_

_As he peered into the still water, he saw, for a split second, a pair of pale, lightning-bright eyes flashing in the depths, and his body jerked—_

* * *

Raltin came awake suddenly, kicking out and falling backwards. He sat down hard, scrambling back to get out of the icy lakewater, slipping in the smooth sand.

He could barely breathe. The Lake of Mirrors smelled like roses and ice, seeping under his skin, and he struggled to his feet. Water pooled around his ankles.

_Raltin? _Talon murmured, groggy. He was back at the campsite, stumbling to his own feet, shaking his head and trying to fight off the heavy sleep that had overtaken him. The other dragons were with him, but Murtagh and Arya were not.

Raltin looked out onto the Lake and sure enough there they were, sinking slowly, still lost in their dreams.

The whole surface of the Lake seemed to shimmer, glowing faintly, and Raltin frowned.

_Murtagh! _He called. _Arya!_

Neither Rider turned towards him and Raltin swore, running a hand through his soaked hair. They sank slowly, steadily, the gleaming water wrapping around their bodies. He knew they were asleep, dreaming like he'd been dreaming.

_Talon! I can't get them myself!_

His dragon staggered to his feet, clumsily shoving off. Raltin swore again, pacing on the lakeshore. He should help them. No one—not even Morzan's son—deserved to drown in a lake. Raltin reached out with magic, shouting the words to lift the two Riders from the water.

The Lake of Mirrors _pulsed, _light flaring up, and Raltin screamed, abandoning the spell and clutching his head. Pain exploded behind his eyes and cold air tore at his lungs, driving him to his knees.

The water was frigid, seeping into his clothes and he shook, fighting to rise from the haze of pain. He tried to lift the Riders again, and again he howled, driven away by pain and cold.

The center of the Lake, where the light shone the brightest, flashed again, and icy wind shrieked towards him.

_The Lake is _alive_!_

_I'm coming, _Talon cried, and Raltin heard the wingbeats coming closer. Relieved, he used a spell to propel his own body into the air, out of the flashing, freezing Lake.

Talon caught him and within moments Raltin was safe on his dragon's back. The wind whipped harmlessly below him and the light dimmed again.

_Talon, the Lake of Mirrors is alive, _Raltin said. _Or enchanted, or possessed, or something. _

_I was asleep, and I couldn't wake up, _Talon murmured, flying in tight loops. _I think it's enchanted. _Below, Murtagh and Arya were still slowly sinking, up to their elbows in water. Raltin wondered why they didn't just sink and why the freezing water didn't wake them up, but he chalked it up to the enchantments.

The center of the Lake flared, pulsing almost like a heartbeat, and Talon flew a little higher.

_We have to save them, _Raltin said.

_Are you sure? _

Raltin sighed. He could die, fighting this Lake. It was _evil, _he could feel it in his bones, but he could not just let two people drown, or fall into whatever the enchantment was. He could not condemn them to death.

Besides, during these last few weeks of travel he'd grown strangely… tolerant of the red and green Riders. He enjoyed their company, and didn't want to make the long journey home alone.

Murtagh was still an obnoxious, emotionless prick, though.

_Yes, _he said firmly. _I'm sure. _

_How did you break the enchantment? _

_How did you?_

_You called me, _the dark dragon rumbled. _I heard you calling to me, and you brought me from my dream. _

Raltin nodded. _I think… I think someone called out to me too. I could not see him, but I heard his voice, and he told me to wake. He broke the spell. _

_So we just have to reach them, _Talon said thoughtfully. _I'll try Thorn and the little one. _

Raltin agreed and closed his eyes, gathering up all of his strength. He knew from rumor that Murtagh's mind was especially difficult to break into, but he had no other option, except for letting the man drown.

He took a deep breath, and dove in.

He found Arya's mind first, a smooth, sturdy nub of consciousness shrouded in mist. He pushed _hard, _filling his mind with images of steel, battering away at her defenses. The Lake light surged, almost blinding in its intensity, but Raltin ignored it. The wind roared but he was too high above; the Lake could not reach him up here.

Finally, Arya's mental walls gave way and Raltin was in, connected to her mind. The connection pulsed sluggishly, dimly, like it was half underwater.

_Arya! _Raltin shouted. _Arya Shadeslayer!_

She did not respond, and Raltin pushed on, through memories and feelings and whirling fog until he reached the center of her mind, where a picture of the Lake gleamed. The water was covered in a hard, clear surface and just below it waited Eragon Shadeslayer, a smile on his face. Arya _wanted _him, wanted to get to him, and so she bore down on the clear surface, pushing harder and harder—

_Arya! This isn't real! It's an enchantment!_

Fuzzy confusion filtered through the link and the elf seemed to look up, turning away from the Lake.

_ARYA! _

Raltin felt her come back, waking from the enchantment. She started violently, her mind suddenly blazing to life, and he was thrown out harshly into his own mind.

Below, Arya began to howl, realizing what was happening, feeling the icy water sap at her strength.

The center of the Lake glowed and more wind tore across the surface—not disturbing the perfectly still water, which was just _creepy_—and the elf screamed out again, clearly in pain.

Raltin reached out to help her but, with more strength than he thought possible, she fired off a spell that shot her straight out of the cold water, sending her skidding onto the shore.

He breathed a sigh of relief and heard Faolin's waking roars. One down, one to go.

He turned his power onto Murtagh, hurling himself against the elder Rider's mind with all his might. The red Rider's mind was hard as steel, protected, but Raltin was fiercely determined and tore at it, ripping away chucks of protective memory.

He felt Arya's mind, brightly burning, join his and together they hacked at Murtagh's defenses, cutting through and finally, _finally _breaking the barrier.

Murtagh's mind was much like Arya's, murky, dim as if submerged. He was sinking faster and Raltin and Arya hurried to the center where he would be dreaming the spell's dream.

_Murtagh! _Arya called, and then, quite on his own, Murtagh woke up.

There was a brief, terrifying moment where all was silent, and the Murtagh _roared, _shoving them so hard that Raltin snapped back into his body. He opened his eyes.

The Lake was blinding.

Cold white light spilled from the center and wind screamed, spreading ice in all directions. Raltin saw a single, thin white crack spread in the surface—the Lake was covered in ice, or something, most of it anyway—quickly, all the way to Murtagh, and then the ice-mirror broke.

It broke cleanly, suddenly, with awful force, right above where Murtagh knelt, submerged up to his arms. The red Rider had time for one last shocked roar, and then he plunged through the broken Lake, down into the glowing depths.

_Damn! _Raltin swore. _Damn, damn damn! Arya!_

_I cannot reach him, _the elf said, shocked, angry, and a little shaken. _He is being blocked from me. _

_It's the Lake, _Raltin said. _It's enchanted, or alive, or—_

_Possessed, _Talon rumbled. His dark eyes flashed. _There is a spirit in this Lake, and somehow we have provoked it. _

_Provoked it, _Raltin thought, wracking his brains. They had done nothing to provoke the spirits of the land—they'd even befriended some, earlier on in their journey, and had left feeling blessed—

_No time! _Talon roared. _Think about it later. Murtagh will drown. _

Raltin swore again. His dragon was right. Murtagh would drown if they didn't get him free. He reached down with magic, probing the Lake of Mirrors, but he could not feel Murtagh; the man was sinking too fast, blocked by enchantment.

_Damn it, _Raltin thought, and then before he had time to change his mind, swung his legs over Talon's back and leaped into the water, screaming a spell to break up the ice-mirror.

He hit the water and wanted to scream. Cold plunged inside him, all the way to his bones, stabbing and slashing so violently that he thought he was going to die.

_Murtagh! _He screamed, tearing through the water. He used magic to push himself deeper, searching the lit-up Lake for the older Rider—

_There!_

Murtagh drifted down below the indigo Rider, limp and unmoving his eyes were closed and precious air slid from his mouth.

Frantically Raltin struggled to reach him, desperate to escape the cold. He grabbed on to Murtagh's shoulder, fingers stiff, and pulled with all his strength, trying to drag the man upwards.

Water sucked them down, and Raltin's struggles slowed.

_I can't escape, _he thought, despair settling into his heart next to the cold. _I can't… I can't…_

Raltin's vision grayed at the edges and for a moment he saw his dream; himself victorious, triumphant, adored by all, the King-killer, the Rider's leader. He _wanted _it, and he thought that maybe it was better to die…

_Yes, _whispered a cold, high voice. _Yes, join us here in the Lake of Mirrors. Come rest with us until the end of time. Come bathe in your dreams, come live among the dead… Come, come…_

And Raltin saw, as he died, the bottom of the Lake of Mirrors. It was covered in corpses. The bodies of men, women, elves, animals, fish, birds, trees, and flowers rested at the bottom of the Lake, frost covering their skin.

_Come… _the high, cold voice whispered. _Come join us here where the world is not pain, only stillness, only your dreams… Come, come…_

Raltin's heart slowed in his chest and he almost let go of Murtagh, entranced by the voice and the bodies and the cold seeping into his chest. It would be nice to rest… To be at peace forever…

_Yes, come…_

And Raltin closed his eyes. In that split second he saw his family, their village, everyone he had loved, and they shook their heads at him. They were disappointed.

_Wait, _he thought, fighting the sleepy cold. _How will I achieve my dream if I die here? I won't! I won't stay!_

The cold grew, stabbing straight at his chest, but Raltin opened his eyes anyway, digging deep into his anger, his pain, his love for his family. In the illuminated water, he saw two pairs of eyes and a set of long, slender teeth, decayed hands clawing at him, a horrible, sucking wail rising from the depths.

_I will not stay here! _

The Lake pulled and Murtagh nearly slipped from his grasp.

_No! _Raltin shouted at the spirit—for that's what the slender-fanged thing was, the Lake spirit—angrily. _You cannot have him! If anyone is going to kill Murtagh Morzansson, it will be me!_

In his grasp Murtagh stirred, and Raltin saw his blue eyes open. The red Rider stared that the indigo Rider, and grabbed his hand.

At once Raltin felt magic pool between them, bright and hot. The water around them began to warm, reacting to them, boiling and bubbling. The spirit clawed at them but its claws were made of ice, and could not stand the heat.

It seemed to roar, furious, and then dove away as the water grew warm, back down to the still, frozen bodies. Its power waned, and Raltin could feel Murtagh's mind again.

_Rise, _Murtagh said.

_Rise, _Raltin said, and they cast their power together, heat surging, pushing them _up_—

They broke out, surging up through the shattered ice, soaring to land in the shallow water where they scrambled to the shore.

Murtagh didn't say anything and Raltin only lay on the shore, panting, shaking so violently he thought surely he was about to die.

_Very good, _said the voice that had woken him from his dream. _Very, very good, my young friend._

* * *

**Some more notes:**

**1) Think of the Lake of Mirrors like a particularly dark version of the Mirror of Erised. It shows you what you want most, and then it, well, tries to kill you. **

**2) Raltin is still kind of a dark horse in all that's going on around him. He knows what he _wants, _he just isn't sure of the best way to get it yet. Just because he saved Murtagh and Arya does not mean he is a good man, and just because he wants to kill Murtagh does not mean he is a bad man. **

**3) The spirit of the Lake is sort of a Dementor/wraith (from _Supernatural_) crossover, and it amuses itself by showing all who happen past what they desire most. Most go mad from the desire and either a) kill everyone in the way, b) committ suicide, or c) jump into the lake and join the Frozen Ones down below. **

**Thanks for reading! If you have any questions, let me know!**

**~WSS**


	37. Chapter Thirty Six: Sight

**Here, have some Traveler :). A Nasuada-centric chapter is in the works, for all y'all who want to know what she's up to. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

* * *

"What you lose in blindness is the space all around you, where you are, and without that you might not exist. You might be nowhere at all." –Barbara Kingsolver

* * *

Chapter Thirty-six: Sight

* * *

Traveler was afraid. He was alone in the Land of Fire and the flames danced around him, singing his clothes and warming his skin.

He couldn't find Guide. They had been walking together and a burning tree had fallen between them, scattering sparks and knocking Traveler to the ground, and when he stood again, Guide was gone.

They had lost Courage early on—he had gone after Sacrifice when she wandered ahead—and now Traveler was all alone in a burning land with no one to guide him, and he was terrified.

The Land of Fire seemed to be empty. He had been walking—stumbling, really—for what felt like _hours _now, calling for Guide until his throat gave out under the thirst, and he had not seen a single soul.

There was only fire, and despair began to settle in Traveler's chest.

"Hello?" he called out raggedly, one last time. His voice was cracked and broken.

No one answered and he closed his eyes, swaying on his feet.

Guide said he would not be alone. He said that someone, _anyone, _would always be near to guide him on his journey, to make sure that he did not fail and fall asleep and never wake up again.

But there was no one, and Traveler was afraid. What if he fell under the river's spell again? What if he forgot all he had remembered? What if he just _stopped _moving and burned here, forever and ever?

_Calm yourself, _he said firmly. He gathered magic inside him, whispering the words that would shield him from fire. The heat licked his skin but did not burn.

He had to get out of here. There _had _to be some way. All Lands led to another, Guide said. The Fire Land eventually emptied out into Sky Land, if Traveler remembered right, or he could always double back and find the Forests again.

_As if, _an ice-cold, dry part of Traveler's mind hissed. _You can't find your way through all this fire. _

Looking around, Traveler's heart sank. It was true. Everything was burning, the trees, the rocks, even the ground itself, in some places. Flames leapt tall and wild, untamed, and there was no way to find the path again.

_I'm stuck here, _he thought. He couldn't fight the fires. He had a sword, but it couldn't cut back flame. He had magic, but it could not smother a whole land. He had courage, but what was courage against never ending fire?

_Foolishness, _whispered the voice. _Stupidity. Just stop and rest, child. I know you're tired… I know you're thirsty… Just rest for a while. _

_No, _Traveler said, remembering Guide's words, remembering War's, Friend's, Courage's, and Sacrifice's. They told him to keep going. To push on. To reach the end of his journey and go back to wherever he'd been before.

They would not want him to stop.

_Just rest, _the voice snarled, and cold began to seep into Traveler's bones despite the heat. It reminded him uncomfortably of the river and he tightened his hands on the magicked flask.

_No! _

The fire howled, and suddenly Traveler was not alone.

"Well look at you," drawled a new voice. "There's some fight in you after all. I was starting to think that you'd given up."

Traveler blinked, reflexively grabbing his sword, a spell on his lips.

The newcomer held up his hands, eyes reflecting the firelight. "Peace, child. I'm not here to hurt you."

Traveler eyed him warily. "Then why are you here?"

"A woman sent me."

"Sacrifice?"

The newcomer's face twisted into a frown, but he nodded. "I suppose that's what she calls herself, yes. She sent me to guide you."

"_You're _my guide?"

"Surprised?"

Traveler shrugged, suddenly angry. "You let me wander around alone," he said accusingly. "I was lost! I was alone! You're supposed to help me, aren't you?"

The newcomer laughed. "You are an entitled one. You think that just because _others _have helped you that _all _souls are obligated to carry yours? To bear the punishments for helping you? If you were so lost and lonely, child, why didn't you ask any of the others?"

"Others?" Traveler snapped, indignant. "There's no one here!"

"Look around you," said the guide. "Look _hard._"

Reluctantly, Traveler obeyed, scanning the writhing flames. He didn't see anyone. "I told you," he started, but then he stopped. He thought he saw… someone in the fire, someone _moving_—

"And now you see," said the newcomer smugly.

Traveler gaped. There were _people _inside the flames! He saw two elves locked in combat, snarling and swiping at each other. He saw a dragon tearing at the ground. He saw a man and a woman fit against each other, hands entangled, holding on so fiercely they could not be separated.

All around him were similar scenes, a hundred thousand beings living inside the fires, wrapped up intently in their tasks.

He shouted to them, hoping to speak to one, but no one answered. They were all too engaged in whatever they were doing, and then Traveler saw something else.

A spark, maybe, gleaming in their eyes, a sort of frantic intensity he had only seen a few men wear. These beings were utterly devoted to their tasks, their anger or their love or their work, and nothing, it seemed, could break them from their stupor.

"Passion," the newcomer said. "The Land of Fire is the world of _passion._"

"But passion is supposed to be a good thing," Traveler said. "Passion is when you love someone, or your country, or your village. Love it enough to _die._"

The new guide snorted. "So not only a selfish child, but a naïve one at that, hm? Tell me, child, who on earth taught you to see the world? You are as blind as a bat."

Traveler bristled, but the guide didn't let him open his mouth.

"Passion is love, sometimes," he said, voice deep and rumbling. "But it is also _fire. _Passion is hate. Passion is rage. Passion is joy. It is love, and lust, and pain, and sorrow, and determination and steel and grit, but it is _fire. _It is madness."

Traveler tilted his head.

"All of these beings here are mad," the newcomer continued. "Mad with love, mad with hate, mad with pain, but mad all the same. Their passions drove them insane, as all wild feelings do. They wouldn't be here otherwise."

Traveler looked around at all the focused souls and searing flames and shivered. "Does it hurt them? The fire, I mean?"

The newcomer shrugged. "I haven't noticed it," he said. "We are Fire's children, the passionate ones, the ones who _burn. _What's a little fire when we've been carrying it inside all our lives?"

Traveler remained silent.

"You are blind," the newcomer continued. "But that is not your fault, is it? You're young, and the young are stupid, especially when everyone around them doesn't _see._"

"What're you talking about?" Traveler asked, now more confused than angry. Flames licked his sides but they didn't hurt, only tickled warmly.

The newcomer sighed. "And here I was told you learned quickly. You are in the Land of Fire now, child. Your blindness will kill you."

"I'm already dead," Traveler pointed out, and the stranger cracked a small, wicked grin.

"Perhaps there is hope for you yet, hm? Come." And he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away, the flames dancing all around him.

Traveler followed, dubious and confused, but he didn't really have another option, and the stranger seemed harmless enough, if a little _off._

"The others taught you lessons, I assume?"

Traveler nodded. "War helped me remember that I was a fighter," he said. "And Friend that I was a magician, and Courage that I am brave. Guide is teaching me many things, and Sacrifice hasn't said much, yet."

At the mention of Sacrifice, the new guide's eyes softened a little, though they still shone with the fire's light. "Pathetic lessons," he said. "What use are you if this is all you remember? That you are a brave warrior-magician?"

Traveler's temper flared. "It means I can _fight," _he snarled. "I can cast magic. I can be brave enough to protect the people I care about."

The stranger laughed, hard and sharp. "Dear child, what use are these things if you don't have the _will _to use them, and the _sight _to know when and how? You say you are brave enough to protect your friends, but do you have any friends?"

Traveler stopped. Did he have friends? He struggled to remember, wracking his brain and swishing the flask, tearing at the darkest corners of his mind, but he came up empty. He had fragments—

(_a warm hand on his shoulder, a gentle laugh, warmth spreading through his bones, a kiss, a cry, a dragon's roar, and _love _in his chest like a lightning song—_)

—but no names, no faces. Only emptiness, and a wound he didn't know he had bled into his heart. He had no friends.

"I don't," he whispered, horrified. He didn't have any friends! None that he remembered, anyway. He _knew _they should be there, the ones he loved. Their names should be burned onto his heart, always and forever, but they _weren't, _and their loss, their namelessness, left him reeling.

Who did he have to fight for? To struggle for? This whole journey was pointless if he didn't know _who _he was doing it for. He might as well have just stayed in the Gray Lands, letting himself turn to stone or to tree. _He had no one, _and the fire around him roared with the force of his pain—

The stranger hit him. "Child," he snapped. Traveler shook his head, ears ringing, the terrible thirst swelling in his mouth, oh how he wanted to drink from the river and _forget_—

The stranger hit him again and he staggered, blinking.

"Foolish boy. Don't _drown _in it, damn it. This is Fire Land. _Burn _with it. Go a little mad with it. _See _with it."

"With what?" Traveler croaked, hoarse and angry. "_I have nothing._"

"With your pain. Pain is passionate too. You hurt because you don't remember your friends. Use that hurt. Seize it, bring it in, and make it burn you."

"It hurts," he whispered raggedly.

"Of course it hurts," the guide snapped. "That is the nature of pain. It burns, but it is a cleansing fire." He swept a hand over the blazing land, at all the souls and their intent, crackling focus. "Passion drives a soul to madness, but it also clarifies. It _liberates. _Fire burns away the fog that we wrap ourselves in and makes us see what is important. What we care about. What we fight and die to defend, if we must."

"You—" Traveler started, but he couldn't speak. He could only double over, wailing in anger and grief, because he _couldn't remember _their faces and he _needed _to.

He needed to.

The stranger was right. All of his recently regained knowledge was useless if he didn't have a reason to use it. He needed a reason, needed the will to act, and he couldn't see that will now because it was wrapped in fog and ice and lightning-sharp stabs of pain.

But he could find a reason. He could try. War had taught him that he was a fighter. Friend showed him that he was a magician. Courage revealed that he was brave. He could do great things. He could reach the end of this long, painful journey.

_I can, _Traveler told himself fiercely. _I _can.

He could find passion. He could weather this pain.

He met the stranger's eyes, and the new guide nodded once. Traveler screwed his eyes shut, gathering up every scrap of hurt he could recall, every wound, throwing onto the blaze that was _I cannot remember my friends_—

Pain exploded, ice-cold and deadly. Traveler fell to his knees, screaming, his whole body shaking with it, he thought he was going to die _again_—

(_I love you, someone chanted, over and over again. At first the voice was small and sad, alone in a smooth silver river. I love you, I love you, I love you. _

_And then there was another voice and it belonged to a faceless woman who held Traveler in her arms. I love you, I love you, I love you. _

_I love you, said an old man, and Traveler felt his warmth. I love you, I love you. _

_I love you, growled a bright-eyed dragoness. I love you, my little one. _

_I love you, murmured a blue-eyed man. I love you. _

_I love you, howled a bearded man, shaking a hammer at the sky. I love you, I love you. _

_I love you, whispered a beautiful young woman, and her words were as warm as sunlight. I love you, I love you, I love you._)

Traveler rose, staggering to his feet, coughing, magic alive and sparking in his veins. _Passion _thrummed inside him, beating double with his heart. He loved people, and they loved him. He did not remember them yet but he knew their voices, knew their faces, and he knew they loved him.

Traveler held onto that trembling realization, gathering it to his fingertips, and dropped it into his flask. It flared white-hot, a miniature sun, and the flask was now even fuller.

The strange new guide grinned wryly, pleased with himself.

Traveler stood in the flames, passion singing inside him, love for the ones who loved him, fury at the loss of his memories, and determination to get to the end.

He looked around, and suddenly the Land of Fire wasn't so vast and frightening any more. In fact it was strangely beautiful, blazing brightly, a beacon of light that even the Lord of Death couldn't stamp out. He smiled.

"Good," the guide said. "Very good. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, little fool."

"What do I call you?" Traveler asked. He knew he wasn't done with this being yet—they had many miles to go in this burning place.

The stranger smiled, his eyes gleaming. "You may call me Sight."

* * *

**A note: If you guys can guess who Sight is, I will be super-impressed. Like, straight up. **

**If you have any questions, just ask! If you liked, drop a review! **

**~WSS**


	38. Chapter Thirty Seven: Some Wisdom

**Hi! How are you guys? Good, yes? Here is the Nasuada chapter that a lot of you guys wanted! It's more politics than anything, but, well, she's a politician, so, yeah. Sorry? **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"I am sometimes a fox and sometimes a lion. The whole secret of government lies in knowing when to be one or the other." –Napoleon Bonaparte.

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Chapter Thirty-seven: Some Wisdom

* * *

"Damn them all," Nasuada muttered, rubbing the lines off her forehead. "Damn them and their children's children!"

"Problem, my lady?" Angela the witch asked, leaning back in her chair.

Nasuada glared at the other woman.

"They really are a worrisome family," the witch continued cheerfully. "Every last one of them. It's Palancar's blood, you know. The man was absolutely mad, and all of his descendants tend to share that little trait."

"The rest of the Carvahall recruits are fine," the Lady of the Varden snapped, tapping her table. "They're all normal, hard-working people. But _these _three, oh, these three."

Angela smiled fondly. "They are something else," she said. "It's a pity we haven't had them all on the same side for longer than a few days. I'd imagine we would have won the war by now."

Nasuada snorted. Yes, with Eragon, Murtagh, and Roran all fighting for the Varden at the same time, the Empire would have fallen in a matter of weeks. If she didn't kill the lot of them first.

Which was currently her predicament, because Lady Nasuada was half-tempted to have Roran and Murtagh murdered on sight, whenever they returned.

She had not heard from Murtagh for over two weeks, since he had crossed the Edda River.

And Roran was still missing, a month and a half after his disappearance. She had received one hastily-written letter from him nearly a month ago, and that was it.

_Lady Nasuada, _the letter had read.

_I am alive. I am safe. I am hidden with the Empire. Do not send anyone after me. I will return as soon as I find Katrina. _

_RS_

Nasuada shook her head irritably, standing and pacing around the room. Angela watched with her usual air of vague amusement.

"You shouldn't worry about them so much," she said breezily. "Murtagh has a dragon and two others Riders to look after him and Roran is quick on his feet. They'll be fine."

"I know," Nasuada muttered. "But I can't help but worry about them anyway. What if something happens to them? They are cut off from us and the support we can give. Murtagh has dragons and magic, but what happens if the tales of the East are true? If he encounters a god or some ancient being that he can't handle? And Roran is with the _Empire. _One man against hordes of _thousands. _If he is discovered, they'll kill him. Or worse, take him to Uru'baen."

Angela chewed her lip thoughtfully.

"They are _my _people," Nasuada said fiercely. "_My _responsibility. If they die, I am responsible. I should be able to help them."

Angela smiled gently. "You have a good heart," she said. "But you are misguided, my dear. Murtagh is the Leader of the Dragon Riders—he is no one's responsibility but his dragon's and his own. Roran is the descendant of King Palancar, the original Mad King. His blood is royalty and his loyalty is to his wife."

"They are both sworn to me," Nasuada argued.

"Are they? Eragon made such a vow, but he is dead." The Lady of the Varden winced, but Angela ignored her. "Murtagh has made no such vow. And Roran has never taken a public oath of fealty. They work with the Varden, but they don't owe loyalty to it."

"But—"

Angela put her hand up. "They choose to be your allies," she said sternly. "They willingly—well, usually—follow you into battle. But they are _allies, _not serfs, not vassals. They aren't your responsibility."

Nasuada turned away, her jaw set in a grim line. "But I feel like they are."

"And that would be your heart," the witch said, not unkindly. "Stupid little things, our hearts. King Palancar tried to cut his out, you know. Thought it would make him less human, a more perfect ruler."

Nasuada laughed bleakly. "Sounds like he had the right idea."

"The old fool bled to death," Angela snorted. "In front of his subjects, no less. Embarrassing."

The Varden's Lady couldn't help but giggle a little. "That must have been a sight."

"Oh yes," Angela said. "It was."

Nasuada arched an eyebrow. "Were you there?"

"Now now, you know it's not polite to ask a woman her age," the witch sang, eyes flashing merrily. "I'll have to set Solembum on you."

"You will do no such thing," the werecat said, prowling into the room in his human form. He inclined his head slightly to Nasuada before glaring at the witch.

Angela grinned at him.

"Solembum," Nasuada greeted.

"Lady," he said dryly. "You sent for me?"

As a matter of fact, Nasuada had sent for the werecat—she had a mission that required his…less than human skills. She nodded, gesturing for him to sit.

The shaggy-haired boy glared at her and remained standing.

_Well then. _"I need you to find Roran Stronghammer," Nasuada said bluntly. There was no point in being subtle with a being like Solembum. "It has been long enough—I need him back."

The boy blinked, and she could swear that _amusement _gleamed in his bright eyes. "And what will you give me, if I find your missing General, Lady Nasuada? Think carefully."

Nasuada looked at Angela quickly, but the witch's face was schooled into polite amusement. She would be no help, then. What could a werecat possibly want? She wracked her brains, searching for everything she knew about werecats. They were immortal, sometimes human-shaped and sometimes cat-shaped, but they were neither human nor cat. Gold and jewels meant nothing to them. Lands and titles were useless. They did not need magical items and they did not crave company.

What could a werecat want? They were just shadows, really, always on the edge of things, the friends of farmers and heroes, ready with a sharp tooth and a riddle to show the way—

_That's it! _Nasuada thought, excited. _Riddles! _Werecats were fiercely intelligent creatures. Kings and elves occasionally kept them as companions for their intelligence; it was nearly impossible to trick a werecat.

_If you can befriend a werecat, do so, _her father had told her once, many years ago. _A werecat, if he respects you, can save your life. _

Nasuada smiled at Solembum. "A riddle," she said.

The shaggy-haired boy tilted his head thoughtfully. "A riddle?" he drawled. "You want me to risk my life in the Empire's land for a riddle?"

"Not just any riddle," the Lady of the Varden said. "A riddle you can't solve. An impossible riddle."

"If you can give me a riddle I can't solve, I will do whatever you ask," the werecat said with a sly grin. His eyes gleamed. He clearly didn't think that she would be able to stump him.

"Tell me, Solembum, have you ever spent time among the Wandering Tribes?"

"No."

Nasuada's smile widened, and even Angela looked intrigued. "Interesting. Are you ready?"

The werecat nodded.

The Varden's Lady took a deep breath, calling up her father's old stories and vague, shifting memories of a time long past. Every Tribe-born child knew this riddle, but Solembum had never traveled among the Tribes, so he probably wouldn't know it…

She hoped, anyway.

"He lurks beside the mountain pass, he hides within the avalanche, he makes his home amid the snowflake white. He waits within the forests deep, he watches from the precipice, he seizes whom he will wherever they are. He hurls down rocks from mountainsides, he fells the tree that crashes down, he whispers to the serpent when to strike. He guides the mountain lion's spring, he hides with the rushing stream, he seizes those who cross and drags them down rivers. He rides upon the wings of storms, he hurls the lightning's blinding flames, he hovers in the air above the homes. Who is he?"

Nasuada finished the riddle and watched Solembum, who narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Angela hid a smile behind her hand, her eyes dancing. She had probably spent some time with a Tribe—she had spent time with every group of people, it seemed.

Solembum paced, chewing his lip, around and around the room.

_It's easy, if you think about it, _Nasuada thought. But then, she hadn't been able to figure it out the first time, either. The riddle was one of the core ideas of the Wandering Tribes. To understand it, one first had to understand just _what _the tribes were.

They were nomads.

They had no homes, no lands, no herds. All they had was what they carried, both on their backs and in their hearts.

Finally, Solembum straightened, eyes flashing proudly. "The wind," he said. "He is the wind."

Nasuada grinned. "No." Very close, but no. That was her guess too, all those years ago when Ajihad first gave her the riddle. It made sense, but it was wrong.

"Then what?" Solembum snapped, clearly annoyed. He didn't like being wrong, apparently, and now he had to go off among the Empire to find Roran.

Angela giggled.

"The spirit," Nasuada said. "The answer to the riddle is the spirit."

The werecat stared.

And stared.

And, finally, began to laugh, throwing his head back. "That's good," he said, more amused than annoyed now. "Very good indeed. I'll have to spend some time among your Tribes, then, if _this _is what you can come up with. The spirit. How interesting."

Nasauda smiled at him, bowing slightly. "Our Elders aim to please."

The werecat grinned, all sharp teeth and bright eyes. "I will go find your missing General, Lady Nasuada. You'll have to share more riddles with me when I get back." He bowed, nodded at Angela, and then was gone.

"Oh, that was clever," Angela said happily. "I haven't seen him that surprised since the housewives of Teirm decided he was a god."

The Lady of the Varden raised an eyebrow. "Did you know the answer?"

"Oh, yes." The witch flapped her hand dismissively. "Spirit, that's important to your Tribes, isn't it? _Will, _motion, driving force. Something I've always admired about you, actually, and your father."

Nasuada eyed the witch, but Angela just smiled beatifically.

"Now then," she continued. "I believe you were worried about a certain family of idiots?"

Nasuada's heart sank and she glared. She knew it was childish, but she couldn't help it. Out-riddling Solembum had taken her mind of the near-constant worry she'd been feeling for weeks now, and the witch just _had _to ruin it—

"Why don't you take matters into your own hands?"

Nasuada blinked. "What?"

"You're the leader of the Varden," the blonde woman continued. "What are you doing sitting here, waiting for Roran and Murtagh to come back? Where's your _spirit, _woman? _Move! _Act! Don't just sit here and mope!"

"It's still winter," Nasuada argued. "I can't move the fighters. What will we eat? How will we survive the cold?"

Angela rolled her eyes. "Don't make me do all the thinking for you! You're intelligent! Your father raised you for this. You moved the host of the Varden out of Farthen Dur during the wintertime, how is this different? You wouldn't even be going as far this time, only to Dras Leona. That's five days' march up the Lake, if that."

"The food, the cold—"

"Bah," the witch said. "You have magicians. You'll figure it out."

Nasuada stared. War in the wintertime? It was unheard of! Moving troops, feeding them, keeping them warm, all were nearly impossible to accomplish during the dead of winter.

"Spring is only a month away," she argued. "Why can't we wait until then? It'll be safer."

"But _expected._"

Nasuada stopped. Angela did have a point. "If we went now, we could catch the city off its guard," she murmured. "The King would notice, of course, but having only five days to prepare what normally takes a week or more? Dras Leona would be _vulnerable._"

Angela only leaned back, looking pleased with herself.

"We could do it," Nasuada murmured. Yes, the Varden had less men than the Empire, but they had more courage, more _spirit. _And they had all of the cities on the sea—Dras Leona was the Empire's last trading post. With it in the Varden's hands, they'd starve, and Uru'baen would be _weak. _

"Could we get the elves out of Teirm?" she asked.

"Oh, I'd imagine so," Angela said. "Last I heard they had a host of fifteen hundred warriors there. They can spare a thousand or so, now that the city's fallen."

"Can they?" Nasuada asked, worried about the city rebelling, fighting back. Teirm was the third-largest city in the Empire, populated with thousands of people. Would five hundred elves really be enough to hold onto the city?

"They're elves," Angela said, waving her hand again. "Besides, the city has actually _improved _underneath them. After our crazy general burned the harbor, it was shut down. The people spent nearly a year starving. With the elves and their habit of singing food out of the ground, I hear the city's been doing quite well."

Nasuada nodded. She'd heard that too. "Seven hundred elves in the city," she said decisively, dragging out her map and moving some pieces around. "If we can bring the others down across Leona Lake, and we come up from the southeast…"

Angela smiled.

"The dragons," Nasuada said, straightening.

"You want to use them?"

She shook her head, pacing again. "No, no, the dragons have, for the last month or so, been spying in Uru'baen."

Angela stared, surprised for once. "Actually _spying?_"

Nasuada nodded. "They developed a trick, down in those caves. A way of breaking past even the densest of wards, even from a great distance. They've been inside Uru'baen's wards for the better part of three weeks now."

"How?"

"Doesn't matter," she said. "They're _in. _They have a path to Saphira."

"She's alive?" Angela's face softened into something Nasuada couldn't place. Relief, maybe, and pity, and pain.

Nasuada nodded. "Galbatorix has her caged in the dragonhold. She's alive, but from what I understand, she seems…hollow. Empty."

"I can work on that," the witch said, her face storm-dark. "I think it is time for me to pay the Riders a visit."

"Don't break them," Nasuada muttered. "Would you mind sending the captains in to me? I have them gathered downstairs."

Angela nodded, and then she too was gone.

Nasuada stared at the map, her thoughts whirling. Could she really do it? Could she surprise the Empire and take Dras Leona? A plan was forming in the depths of her mind, a dangerous plan, to be sure, but one with _spirit, _one that her father would've been proud of…

"You summoned us, milady?" Captain Horst of Carvahall stood in the doorway with the rest of the captains behind him, waiting expectantly.

"Come in, come in," Nasuada said.

They did, standing tall and proud in front of her.

She breathed, then began. "We are going to attack Dras Leona."

Instantly the captains—even the two elves in attendance—started to voice their protests.

"Impossible!" Nasuada heard.

"We'll freeze!"

"How will we eat?"

"It can't be done!"

Nasuada held her hand up and waited for them to quiet down. "It _has not _been done," she said, "but that doesn't mean it _can't _be done."

"It's the dead of winter," Bjard, a young captain, argued. "We'll freeze before we even get there, and that's not even considering the supplies we'd need to make such a march!"

"We wouldn't freeze, or starve," Nasuada said. "We have spellcasters—they can help us find food and keep us warm. Think about it! Galbatorix will know as soon as the host leaves the gates, but five days isn't enough time to prepare an entire city, not when they were expecting to have another month at least!"

"We can catch them off guard," Horst murmured thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "Aye, she has a point. If they're not ready, we shouldn't have too much trouble getting in. We got into Belatona, after all."

"And this time, we'll have the elves," Nasuada said encouragingly. "At least eight hundred of them."

The two elves put their heads together briefly and then nodded, faces set.

"And our Dragon Riders," the Lady continued, bolstering their confidence. "We took Belatona with two Riders, no elves, and less of a fighting force than we have now. Dras Leona will fall!"

The anxious murmuring began to change, picking up speed as more and more of the captains came around.

"We could do it," she sang out, above the noise. "We are the Varden!"

The answering roar sent a thrill through her bones, but one captain—Arred, if she remembered right—did not join in the shouting.

"What about the King," he asked, and in that moment Nasuada could've killed him.

Everyone went dead quiet.

"What if Galbatorix decides to join this fight, like he did last time? What about the Halflings? Are these Riders up to it?"

Nasuada did her best not to glare at the man. He had a valid point, just, not one she wanted to deal with, right now. She took a deep breath.

"Galbatorix can't leave Uru'baen," she said. "It's overcome with riots in the wintertime, and if he leaves, the city will burn down."

Arred looked at her, and she could see that he needed more. She hated having to do this, but…

"What I am about to say to you must not leave this room," she growled, drawing herself up taller, setting her face. "I am perfectly serious. The very safety of the Varden is at risk."

One by one the captains nodded, intrigued despite themselves.

"There are more Dragon Riders."

Shocked silence met her lie.

"The Rider clan in the caves was not the only clan to survive the First Rider War. Beyond Alagaesia, in the deep and secret places, the Riders have lived. Murtagh has gone to collect them."

"How many?" Arred said, breaking the silence.

_You stubborn bastard. _

"I don't know the exact numbers," she said carefully, "but Murtagh believed it to be around twenty."

"_Twenty _Dragon Riders? Hiding all this time?"

Nasuada nodded—it really wasn't that much of a stretch, to be honest. First the elves had been hiding a golden dragon in Du Weldenvarden and then five more had sprung up from the Spine.

"Galbatorix could not stomp out an entire organization of warriors," she said strongly. She hated this, lying to them, but, well, sometimes it had to be done. "Of course there are more in hiding. And the time has come for them to fight. And they will! Will Galbatorix dare test himself against twenty-six Dragon Riders at once? He cannot! Two Riders alone nearly beat him!"

The enthusiasm was returning to the gathered men—they believed her. Good. This lie served two purposes—one, her captains would be confident and lead the men into battle whole-heartedly, and two, Galbatorix, when he heard the rumor—and he would, Nasuada didn't doubt that—he would no doubt focus all his efforts on trying to see what Murtagh was doing. He would be distracted.

And Nasuada _needed _him distracted.

"We shall march in two weeks," she said decisively. "Start gathering supplies, getting your troops into order, and so on. Do not tell anyone else what is to be done. Understand? This _must remain a surprise._"

All of the captains, heartened by her plan and her lies, nodded happily.

"Swear to the elves," she ordered, and they did, binding themselves in the ancient language. They would not speak of the plan, but somehow, the rumor of the twenty Riders would get out, she _knew _it. She was counting on it.

And maybe it was wrong to lie to them, to the captains who trusted her to lead them, but it was necessary, right now. She needed Galbatorix distracted. Because if he was scrying, distracted from his city and his palace…

Saphira could be freed.

Nasuada nodded to herself, as her men filed out of the stuffy room. This plan would work. It had to work.

When this clan of Riders didn't show up, her men were sure to be angry—furious, even—but she hoped that Eragon's reappearance would soothe that, at least a little. She had to lie, in case there was a spy among her captains. The King _had to believe _this rumor.

She was reminded, suddenly, of one of her father's favorite sayings. _The charging wolf kills the most enemies, but the sly fox gets the most food. _

An obvious attack on Dras Leona would probably work, but, like a wolf that took on a much-larger enemy, if Galbatorix showed up, they would probably die, or at least suffer massive casualties. But if the Varden was the sly fox, sneaking around the distraction of, say, a fake clan of Riders, well…

Then they just might win this thing.

_Keep telling yourself that, _Nasuada thought dryly, and stared out at the city until night fell.

* * *

**A note on the Wandering Tribes: they sound a lot like Native Americans (in my head cannon, anyway), paricularly the Navajo people, and so the riddle Nasuada gave Solembum is a Native American riddle. The Native Americans were, above all things, concerned with matters of the spirit. **

**A note on time: When _Edoc'sil _began, it was two months after the end of _Eldunari. _Roran has been missing for about a month and a half and Murtagh & co have been gone for just over three weeks. It's currently about the Alagaesian equivalent of February. Hope that helps!**

**Review, y/y?**

**~WSS**


	39. Chapter Thirty Eight: Blood

**Hi! Quick update, no? This was originally supposed to be a Murtagh chapter, but it's not anymore. He should be next, though. **

**I guess there were some problems with FFN log ins and stuff? Never fun, never fun. But hey, thanks for reading anyway! I appreciate it :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

* * *

"People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people." –V, _V for Vendetta _

* * *

Chapter Thirty-eight: Blood

* * *

Roran sat in the healer's tent, bound hand and foot, waiting to die. Four armed guards stood at the entrance, their faces impassive, staring straight ahead. They didn't look at him.

Jensen wasn't allowed to touch him. Roran could see the healer fuming quietly, but there was nothing he could do. The general tried to reassure him with his eyes, but Jensen didn't look convinced. The dark, swollen bruise decorating Roran's face probably had something to do with that.

Captain Derek was not happy. To be fair, Roran wouldn't be happy either if he found an Imperial general hiding amongst his men, but still, his face _hurt. _

Derek hadn't given him a chance to react. He had revealed Roran's name and then hit him hard, stunning him and chaining him up before the younger man had a chance to fight back.

_Would I have fought back? _Roran wondered. He didn't know. He would have fought against Derek, of course, but the entire Red Guard? After he'd fought monsters for them, with them?

No, he couldn't fight them all. He _cared _about some of them now, damn it. He liked them—Jared, Tak the archer, Samael Treespliter whose daughter was dead, Kalinsson who couldn't remember his first name, Merle whose fried chicken was legend —and he didn't want to fight them.

So he stayed put, chained up, and waited to die.

And Derek would have him killed, that he knew. _He _would, if an Imperial soldier had been found with his men. Uru'baen was several days' travel away, and Roran was a known fighter—a _berserker_—and rather good at escaping Imperial traps. It was simply too risky to leave him alive.

So Derek would do what all conquerors did—kill his captured foe. Roran couldn't really begrudge him for it.

_Where did he get my name, though? _Roran hadn't breathed a word of his real identity to anyone but Jensen and he _knew _the healer hadn't revealed him. Jensen said that first, he did no harm. He had sworn to keep Roran's secret. So who had told Derek that the Varden's general was in his Guard?

Roran shifted, thinking furiously. How could he get out of this? He didn't want to die—no one did, but he really, _really _couldn't afford to die right now—but he didn't have a plan to get out of this.

_I can't turn Derek's sword aside, _he thought. There was no way he could convince the Captain that he wasn't a threat. Derek was not a man who balked from bloodshed, or from revenge. And killing Roran Stronghammer would earn him an earldom, _power, _what he so desperately wanted.

_No, not even my silver tongue can talk him out of this, _Roran thought wryly. _But maybe…_

Maybe, just maybe, he could convince the Red Guard to turn against Derek. He had a gift, Jensen said, he could _lead _people. Hell, he'd successfully led them against Death's Hounds. He'd fought with them, and Derek had not. All he had to do was say the right words.

_I just hope I have the chance to. _

"So," Captain Derek said icily, striding into the tent. His eyes flashed meanly and his hands were curled into fists. "You thought you could just hide among us, _Stronghammer? _That we wouldn't sniff you out like the traitor you are?"

Roran said nothing. He couldn't reason with this man. He was starting to think that no one could reason with the Captain, and so he held his tongue.

Derek sneered and seized the general's shoulder—it had healed, mostly, and so only stung a little—to drag him up.

Roran didn't resist as Derek hauled him out of the tent into the growing dawn. He let the Captain drag him through the entire camp, his eyes fixed ahead. He didn't look at the growing crowd of limping, muttering soldiers.

_Not yet, _he thought. _Now isn't the time. _

Derek threw him into the bloody snow at the center of camp and circled around him. Roran stood, shaking the snow off his shoulders.

The camp was in ruins. Tents were shredded, fluttering in the wind. Armor and weapons sat in scattered piles. The dead lay where they had fallen, their eyes blank and their wounds dark and gaping.

"You haven't taken care of your dead," Roran said lowly, anger spiking in his chest. The commander was _always _supposed to take care of the dead, to drag them from the field and put them to rest. "You're putting me on trial and you haven't _buried your dead_?"

Low muttering broke out among the gathered soldiers and they shifted, clearly sharing Roran's anger. Commanders weren't supposed to leave the dead. It was dishonorable.

"Do not try and berate me, _traitor,_" Derek snarled, fury gleaming in his face. "You are a citizen of the Empire! The Empire has protected you all your life! Is this how you repay it? By turning against it, by killing its people? You betrayed us. You lied to us. You murdered our brothers!"

"Wrong," Roran snapped. "I have never murdered anyone. I have fought your _brothers _in fair combat and defeated them."

"You joined the Varden. Hell, you _lead _the Varden! You spit on the very nation that raised you!"

"My father raised me," Roran said. "Not the Empire. Where was the Empire when my village struggled, winter after winter? Where were they when sickness and hunger nearly brought my home to its knees? Where were they during the Urgal raids or the White Breath? They were at my door, demanding more money! The Empire didn't raise me! My _father _raised me!"

Roran took a deep breath, fixing Derek with a cold, strong stare. This was it. He needed the Red Guard on his side. _Jensen, you better be right about this gift of leadership thing. _

"My father's name was Garrow," he continued. "He raised me as best as he could while Imperial tax collectors bled him dry. You're from the north, damn it! You have lived it! Why do you call me a traitor for choosing to _end _that evil?"

More muttering swelled and Derek spat, furious.

"Your kind, glorious _Empire _had my father killed," Roran said quietly. "Galbatorix set the Ra'zac on him. They tortured him until he couldn't take it, and then he died."

"He deserved it," Derek sneered. "He was hiding a Dragon Rider."

"A _child," _Roran snapped. "A scared boy no older than fifteen who happened to find a dragon's egg in the woods. Eragon didn't tell us what he was. My father _didn't know, _and yet he was tortured anyway."

He let silence fall for a moment, breathing again before continuing. "Galbatorix ordered the attack on Yazuac."

Shocked howls exploded and Roran let them, standing in the middle of a storm, still holding Derek's furious eyes.

"The Urgals, under the spell of Durza the Shade, were let loose on the city and many others near it, though Yazuac was the only one destroyed. _Galbatorix _ordered that. And before Durza, when Morzan was his right hand, he had villages razed to the ground. _His _people, the ones he's supposed to protect, murdered for no reason at all.

"And if he doesn't raze villages to the ground, he taxes them so much they starve come winter. The only ways to make money are to join the army and even that's not a good profession anymore, is it, _Derek? _Because men like you and your King don't see the men serving you, you only see cattle to be led to the slaughter."

"Do not—" Derek snarled, but Roran plowed on.

"Where were you when your men fought monsters? Where were you when the Hounds came? Look around you! Fifty men are dead. Fifty more are injured, their lives hanging in the balance. Where were you? _I _fought with them. Me, your enemy, who, as you say, would happily see the lot of you burn."

"Mistakes," Captain Derek snarled, starting forward and then pulling back, circling Roran like a particularly angry dog. "You were just looking for the best time to leave, to crawl back to your precious band of traitors."

"_Wrong,_" Roran sang, gaining power in his words now, righteous fury gathering inside him. "I could've left plenty of times now. I have been here for weeks. My wounds are healed, I have my horse again, I know the guard schedule and the weak spots in camp. It would have been an easy matter for me to just slip away two weeks ago, during a snowstorm or the dead of night. I would've been long gone before you realized it."

"Then why did you stay?" Derek said, grinning now, fierce and sharp. "If you could've slipped the noose, why didn't you?" _You couldn't really escape me, _his eyes said. _You're weak. You're a traitor. _

_You shouldn't have said that, _Roran thought, with rising glee. Derek was walking himself into a trap and he didn't know it. "Because I will not leave good people in the hands of a madman," he said loudly.

The mutterings of the soldiers ceased and even Derek blinked, surprised. "_What?_" the captain hissed.

"You are mad. As mad as your master."

"_Mad? _I am the mad one? What about you, _Stronghammer? _You, who is a child of the Empire, who turned against it, who burns its cities and kills its people?"

"When a wolf grows old and vicious, it is the duty of the young to kill him," Roran said. "Do you remember that story, Therinsford man? I know you've heard it, every northern child has."

He remembered Brom sharing that story on cold, windy nights: _there once was a wolf called Fenris, and he was the strongest wolf in all the land. He and his pack lived well and in harmony with the world, taking only what they needed to eat, and all respected and feared the mighty wolf. _

_But one day, after many long years of leading his pack, Fenris realized that he had become old and weak. He feared that an outsider would come and kill him, strip him of his land and pride and reputation, and for Fenris this was unacceptable. _

_So the old wolf called all the wolves in the world to him, and one by one he had the strongest wolves in every pack crippled so they could not fight. He castrated young males and had cubs killed; he had paws crushed and eyes torn out. _

_Soon the respect and awe the others had for Fenris turned to hate and loathing, but no one was brave enough to stand up to him. They feared for their safety and that of their families, and so they bowed to Fenris and let him destroy their futures. _

_But two of Fenris's young sons, Filtairn and Freki, saw what their father was doing and despised him for it, for his actions were hurting all wolves. And so these two sons conspired together and began to resist their father; they hunted for the crippled packs and hid cubs, taught the young males of each pack how to hide and appear weak. _

_After a few years there was a fighting force strong enough to combat Fenris's tyranny and the wolves rebelled against him, throwing down his pack and forcing the old wolf to his belly. _

_And then, even though he was their father and they still loved him, or what he had been, Fenris's two sons ripped out his throat, because when a wolf grows old and vicious, it is the duty of the young to kill him so innocents will not be hurt. _

Derek bared his teeth. "The king is not some fairy-tale wolf, grown old and fat with power," he spat.

Roran raised a brow. "No? He ordered the death of Yazuac. The siege of many small villages like it. He ordered the burning of Carvahall. He left Teirm to starve. He forces young men to join the army and then throws them against walls and cities like they're rocks or battering rams. He creates monsters like the Painless Ones and the Halflings and turns them loose on his people. He raises taxes, takes over villages, brings slavery back into our lands. He steals our crops and our young men. He kidnaps our babies! He rapes our women! He burns our homes to the ground! Tell me that these are the works of a sane man, Captain Derek. Tell me that he is sane!"

"He is sane," Derek growled, and a low, angry rumble rippled out from the gathered soldiers. "He is sane and he is your King! All of you, _he is your King!_"

"He should not be!" Roran shouted. "He cannot die—how else are we to escape him? If he were a mortal man, there would be no war, because he, like all men, would eventually die and it would get better. But he is an immortal man, a Dragon Rider. He will not die unless we kill him, which means that our suffering won't end unless we fight! We must fight! How can you not understand this?"

Derek opened his mouth again but Roran didn't even let him speak.

"We must fight, because we _burn, _Captain Derek. We burn, and the King would happily see us ablaze in hellfire. He won't help us! He won't lead us, as he should! He doesn't protect us! He doesn't care for us! He is the old wolf, and we, the young, the warriors, are duty-bound to fight him!"

"You are bound to serve him!" Derek roared. "To do whatever he commands of you! He is your leader! He built this Empire on his own blood!"

"On the _Dragon Riders' _blood," Roran snarled. "On innocent blood, on dead sons and daughters and brothers and sisters. He rules with blood, sure enough. He soaks in it—he's up to his neck in blood. But do _not, _for even one moment, imagine that it's his own blood he soaks in. It's _our _blood."

Derek stared, furious beyond words, and the Red Guard swayed and listened.

"It's Yazuac's blood," Roran said, his voice dropping low and soft, intimate like he was speaking to a friend. "It's Carvahall's blood. It's the dwarves' blood and the elves' blood and the Riders' blood. It's farmer blood. It's child blood. It's warrior's blood—both the Imperial Army's and the Varden's.

"It's Jared's blood," he said, and pointed. "It's Tak's blood. It's Samael Treesplitter's and his daughter's. It's Merle's, it's Fen's, it's Kalinsson's. It's your blood, Derek. It's my father's. It's my cousins'—ay, both of them—and my wife's. It's my blood, Captain, and it will not be my children's. Do you understand? I will see your King _dead _so that my children will not bleed under him."

"You—" but again Derek was cut off, this time by Jared, who stepped forward with a roar.

"This man," he shouted, pointing at Roran, "lied to me. He told me his name was Cadoc, that he was from Yazuac. He lied. But he _fought _for us! He fought the Hounds for us and with us! He has been our friend, in all of this, and our leader, far more than _you _ever have been, _Captain._"

"So you would cast your lot with a traitor?" Derek bellowed.

"Gladly! I'm from Uru'baen! I've seen just how much our kind ruler cares for us! Roran has known us for a few weeks and he cares more than our king, who has ruled for a century, ever did! Roran is our _enemy, _the Varden's general, and _he cares more than you do!_"

"He is a traitor!"

"He is a hero!" Jared howled, and the Red Guard, one by one, took up his cry, stamping their feet, shouting and spitting at their captain.

Roran's heart surged. He'd done it!

"Blasphemy!" Derek screamed, his face purpling. "Lies and treachery! All of you should be hanged! You're traitors of the worst kind! Men who would strangle their fathers and slit their mothers' throats!"

"We are warriors!" Roran called above the noise. "We are the Empire's finest men! We bleed and die to protect our families, to send money back home! Who are you to say we're not!"

"Captain Derek of the Red Guard!"

"Then fight me, Captain Derek! Fight me, warrior to warrior, Empire against Varden, King's servant against young wolf!"

Derek's face twisted, eyes gleaming. "Very well," he said, ugliness darkening in his eyes. "I will fight you, Roran Stronghammer. Come here—let me release you."

Roran did, hobbling over to the captain, and Derek undid the chains. "Bring my hammer," Roran said. He met Derek's eyes. "No armor."

"Aye," the captain agreed, calm settling over his features. "No armor."

Within moments Roran's hammer was pressed into his hand and he shook the stiffness out of his legs. Derek drew his sword, eyes gleaming, and did the same, moving with the grace and power of a predator.

They circled. The Red Guard automatically stepped back, forming a wide ring around the two men. Roran met Jared's eyes and nodded. The Uru'baen man smiled.

Derek didn't speak and neither did Roran—the time for words had passed, and they both knew it. Neither made a move to strike, playing the battle over in their heads.

How would it end? The last battle had been a loss for Roran—he couldn't match Derek's skill with a blade. But he had still been injured then, and he was stronger now. He was tired and sore, yes, but he felt _alive_, like the Hound's blood had, when it entered his body, charged him with ice and lightning.

But Derek was furious. Rage, barely suppressed and blazing, gleamed in the captain's eyes. Derek was a berserker. A wild animal backed into a corner. And the only way out was through Roran.

_I will not die, _Roran thought. Derek was angry but Roran was _determined_—he knew what had to be done and he knew how to do it. He had fought magicians and Halflings and Hounds—what was a man, really? He had a new responsibility in the Red Guard. He had a war to win. He had a pregnant wife to find, and Angvard help him he wasn't about to die here and now.

_I can do this, _he thought, and his mind fell into that familiar, easy place where everything was clear and in focus.

They circled.

Derek moved first, in a blur of motion—he lunged, steel flashing, ready to cut off Roran's unprotected arms.

Roran dove to the side, avoiding the whistling blade, and brought his hammer up, but Derek was already dancing out of reach. Roran turned, tracking him, and bashed aside the hungry sword once, twice, each time trying to get closer to Derek.

The captain's eyes flashed and he darted back—his sword had a longer reach than the hammer. All he had to do was stay far enough away…

_Not likely, _Roran thought fiercely, shifting so he was out of the blade's reach. The metal bit the cold air but missed the bearded general, and Derek snarled.

They danced around each other, wary, sizing each other up. Occasionally Derek would lunge forward and Roran would lean back or jump to the side, and the dance would go on.

"Coward," Derek sang, finally fed up with the circling. "Coward, where's your heart? Where's your _courage? _Fight me like a man!"

Roran ignored his taunting. He was too tired to fight Derek on brute strength alone—he'd have to be smarter, be _calmer_ about it, if he wanted to win.

Derek howled, surging forward, and this time Roran brought his hammer up and smashed it down, hitting the sword and shoving in towards the ground. Derek's speed carried him forward and he tripped over the blade, crashing into Roran.

Both men fell to the cold ground, weapons scattering, and Roran instinctively kicked out hard. His foot hit the captain solidly in the chest and he wheezed before planting a blow in Roran's stomach. The general gasped, eyes watering from the sudden pain, and rolled free, scrambling for his hammer.

He was on his feet first but Derek was right behind, rearing up like a bear and raising his sword.

He lunged again, faster than Roran this time, and Roran hissed, jerking away—Derek's sword came back bloody.

_Damn!_

Roran darted to the side, lashing out and catching Derek's shoulder. The captain howled but brought his blade sweeping upward. The general had to dive to the side, taking another fall, to avoid getting his arm cut off.

_Damn him! _

Roran cut inward, his hammer singing, and it bounced off the sword, changing its path yet again. Derek bared his teeth in frustration.

They continued like this—strike parry block dodge cut block, a dance of iron and steel. Sparks flew and snow and ice, soggy already with blood, stirred underfoot.

Roran and Derek clashed again and again, each attack controlled and precise, and finally, _finally, _Roran lost his patience.

With a roar he surged forward, uppercutting with his hammer to batter the blade upwards. Derek shouted in surprised anger and raced to bring his sword back down but Roran was too fast—he was underneath the blade and right up against the captain in a second, too close for the sword to be of any use.

Reversing his grip Roran brought the hammer down _hard _onto Derek's other shoulder, and it cracked sickeningly. The captain howled and nearly dropped the sword—one arm dangled limp and useless.

"Traitor!" Derek screamed. "Coward!" He lunged again, sword point flashing, and Roran wasn't fast enough to avoid it entirely, he gasped in agony as the blade drew a deep, straight line against his ribs—

But he was already moving, hammer rising, coming down on Derek's wrist and the man screamed as all the little bones there shattered under the crushing weight—

Roran brought the hammer back, swiping at Derek's side, and ribs cracked—

He twisted and cracked the other side—

He pulverized the shoulder for good—

He broke the arm—

He crushed the chest—

The bloody sword toppled into the snow and Derek fell to his knees, screaming in anger and pain, his face twisted beyond recognition.

"Traitor!" he howled, like a dying animal. "Traitor, mother-killer, heartless fiend, scum of the earth, _you will die_—"

Roran smashed Derek's temple and the man collapsed sideways, his mouth sagging open and his eyes widening almost comically in surprise.

He twitched once, bleeding in the snow, and then he was dead.

Silence fell over the Red Guard.

And then—

"Strong-hamm-ER, Strong-hamm-ER, Strong-hamm-ER!" The cheer swelled and men stamped their feet, completely caught up in the victory. Jared rushed forward, grinning wildly, leaping over the fallen captain to support Roran, and Jensen was suddenly there, pressing his hands to the deep gash along Roran's side.

The Red Guard cheered wildly, crowding around Roran—their new leader—and chattering excitedly, swearing their allegiance to him, to the Varden if that's what it took to end the war.

_How did this happen? _Roran thought, his head spinning. _How did I convince them? _He didn't know—maybe his words spoke to them, maybe they felt the same—but he was glad of their support, their lack of anger. They liked him. He'd fought with and for them, and he spoke for many people in Alagaesia. And now he spoke for the Red Guard.

His mind whirled and he smiled weakly, letting Jared and the healer take his weight. They guided him to the healer's tent, where he sat heavily, blinking up at his new men.

"So," he said weakly, holding tight to his hammer. "What next?"

* * *

**What next indeed. I hope you enjoyed it! Have a nice day/night/whatever! **

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	40. Chapter Thirty Nine: Prey

**Hey everyone! How goes it? Good, yes? It's raining here, which always makes me write, for some reason. **

**This is a Murtagh chapter and I sort of hate it. I could not make it work for me until the end, so I don't know how it is, quality wise. Urgh. It is also part of a two-part chapter, the next of which will be Arya's POV. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Take hope from the heart of man and you have made him a beast of prey." –Ouida

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Chapter Thirty-nine: Prey

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Something was following the Dragon Riders. The hairs on the back of Murtagh's neck prickled uncomfortably, his instincts screaming, but when he turned to look behind him, all he saw was the smooth, still Lake below.

He shivered and silently urged Thorn faster. They had been flying for hours now, ever since coming out of the Lake of Mirrors.

Murtagh didn't want to think about what had happened, down in the depths of the Lake. Something—a spirit, Arya said—had attacked them. Had made them dream and then, when they were at its mercy, tried to drown them.

That just didn't _happen _to people. Vengeful Lake spirits? If he hadn't seen the thing for himself—a shadow, glades of teeth rippling, clawed hands grasping at his chest—he wouldn't have believed it.

But he had seen it, and he did believe it.

He had met a spirit in the Lake of Mirrors, and it had tried to kill him and his clan.

And now something was following them.

It wasn't the Lake spirit. Murtagh didn't know how he knew, but he _knew _that the Lake spirit couldn't follow them up here into the sky, or past the Lake's borders. It—_rusalka, _whispered the familiar, fire-on-wood voice in the Rider's mind—was bound to the Lake and the nighttime, and, for now, it was day.

Murtagh had never been so glad to see the sun.

Once they all had awoken, they hadn't stayed. They'd leaped into the sky and _flown, _up high and over the Lake, as fast as they could without exhausting the dragons.

It was midday now, and they were still over the Lake.

_It's so big, _Thorn rumbled, watching his reflection in the water. _How can something like this exist? _

Murtagh didn't know. They had been flying for six hours at least and there was still no land on the horizon, only still, glass-like water, rippling on forever.

_Will we find land again? _Thorn asked.

_Yes, _Murtagh promised. They had to—Caspar had reached land again, in Murtagh's dreams. And he'd been _walking. _

They would reach land. They had to.

Up here, it was bitterly cold, but still warmer than the water. Murtagh would dream about _that _for a while—the feeling of ice piercing his skin, forming in his lungs, frosting in his blood, that high, frigid voice calling _come to me, little Rider, come to me and be happy_—

_Stop it, _Thorn said sternly. _I won't let it take you again. _

Murtagh sent a rush of affection and reassurance at his dragon. _I know. _

He looked behind him at the other two Riders. Arya's face was unreadable and she crouched low over Faolin's neck, urging the young dragon on. Raltin was a little easier to read—confusion, fear, and pride colored his face, and his hands were steady on his dragon's dark scales.

They were coping, Murtagh thought.

He didn't know what had woken them. He himself had been woken by someone calling his name in a voice like crackling fire, jarring him out of the harsh cold and filling his blood with warmth.

That burst of energy had been enough to cast a spell, and pulled Murtagh and Raltin from the water.

Did that same voice—the fire-spirit that had once been in Eragon—wake Raltin and Arya? Somehow, Murtagh doubted it.

He didn't really want to think about it, though. The thought of having something like _that _in his body, of being possessed like a Shade, made his skin itch.

_It's okay, _Thorn soothed, and Murtagh scratched his scales.

_I know, my friend. I'm alright. _

They flew on. The Lake spread endlessly below them, empty, completely devoid of even the tiniest little plants. Murtagh knew that his dragon was reflected perfectly in the surface but he didn't want to look. He was afraid that the spirit—the _rusalka_—would reach out to him again.

_Murtagh! _Arya called, brushing at the edges of his mind. The red Rider winced but let her in. His mind felt raw, torn open. Arya and Raltin had battered past his barriers to try and wake him up, and he hadn't quite put himself back together, just yet.

_Yes?_

_Something's following us, _Arya said.

_I know. Do you think it's the rusalka?_

_The what?_

_The Lake's spirit, _Murtagh explained. _Do you think it's following us?_

He twisted around to look at the green Rider, and she shook her head thoughtfully.

_No, _Arya said, _I don't think it is. I keep looking behind me, but there's nothing there. I can _feel _something, though. _

_Me too. _He looked back at the sheet of water, and again there was nothing, but the hairs on the back of his neck trembled all the same. _Raltin? Have you seen anything following us?_

It took the indigo Rider a few moments to respond. _No, _he said slowly. _I haven't seen anything. _He said it in the ancient language, which meant that it was true, but something rang _wrong _in Murtagh's mind and he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

Did Raltin know what was following them?

_He can't, _Murtagh thought to Thorn. _He's never been here before, he doesn't know what lies in these lands. _

The crimson dragon shook his head. _I don't know, _he said honestly. _He's weird. But keep an eye on him—I don't trust him. _

_Neither do I, _Murtagh murmured. _Neither do I. _

Yes, Raltin Morlansson had saved his life. He had been the one to enter the freezing Lake after Murtagh broke through the ice, even though he knew the possible consequences. Raltin had risked his own life to save Murtagh's, and that meant something to the red Rider.

But he was still keeping secrets.

Murtagh couldn't shake the memory of their confrontation weeks ago, in the dark and cold outside of Belatona.

_If I were to attack you right now, could you stop me before I crippled you again? I don't think you could._

He couldn't trust Raltin. The man had already threatened his life once, and saving it didn't cancel out that threat. Raltin could not be trusted. That was why Murtagh had brought the other man with him, after all. To keep an eye on him, to keep him away from the temptation of power.

Out here with only Murtagh, Arya, and the dragons as companions, Raltin couldn't help but form attachments to them. If one spent long enough with _anyone, _bonds were formed, especially if life and death was involved.

So this trip would bind Raltin to Murtagh. It would maybe heal his hurts, or at least stitch them together for a little while, until the war was over.

Raltin was here to learn, and to heal. And he wasn't to be trusted.

Thorn growled low in his chest, surging higher upwards, jarring his Rider.

_What's going on? _

_I smelled them, _Thorn snarled.

_Them?_

_The ones that are following us. _

_What do they smell like? _Murtagh wondered, wishing, not for the first time, that he had a dragon's keen sense of smell.

_Like ice, _Thorn whispered. _Like ice and blood and death. _

Murtagh tensed involuntarily, his sharp eyes scanning the Lake of Mirrors. The surface was still perfect, still motionless. There was nothing moving. But _something _was coming.

_Arya? Can you feel anything?_

_No minds, _the elf said tightly. _But I couldn't feel the Lake spirit's mind either, so that isn't a surprise. _

_You think we're being stalked by spirits? But the spirits helped us! They mended the phoenix feather and magicked Zar'roc. _Not that Murtagh knew just _how _they had enchanted his blade, but still, they'd done _something _to it.

_Do you remember what we were told at the beginning of our journey? _

Murtagh frowned.

_That we must heal the land wherever we go. We need to mend what the dragons trample, grow back what we take to eat. _

_We've done that! _Murtagh said. _We've been careful ever since we crossed the Edda River. _

_No, _Arya said darkly. _We haven't. _

_When?_

_The night the wandering spirits came, _she explained. _We left the ground trampled and broken because we were excited, addled by the spirits' force. We broke the rule. _

Murtagh's blood turned to ice.

_We didn't heal the earth, _she said. _And now we're being hunted for it. The spirits are angry. _

_How? _

He felt her shrug. _The wandering spirits don't care, probably. But the other spirits, the spirits-of-the-land, they _will _care. They live here, for hundreds of thousands of years. Longer than any living thing can even _imagine. _They watch the land. They care for it. And when it's disturbed…_

_They get angry, _Murtagh finished. Wonderful. Not only was he racing against time to find the Forest of the Mother and possibly bring Eragon back from the dead, he was fighting against _spirits, _against the very earth itself. _Can we do anything to calm them down? _

Arya was quiet for a moment. _I'm not sure, _she said. _The elves don't practice any religion, so matters of appeasing the gods—or spirits, in this case—are strange to me. Do you know of anything?_

Murtagh knew of the flesh and blood sacrifices of Helgrind, and the animal sacrifices to Angvard, and the blood-letting rituals that the worshippers of Sa'eth, a cult in Uru'baen, but he didn't think that any of those would be helpful in this situation.

_Not really, _he said. _Maybe it will stop once we get past the Lake?_

_Maybe, _Arya said, and he could tell she didn't mean it.

They flew on. Midday bled into noon, which slowly bled into evening, and at last, _at last, _just as the sun was bleeding orange and red, they saw land.

_There! _Thorn roared jubilantly. _I see the other side!_

The red Rider's heart leaped. Land! They were nearly past the Lake at last! And the rusalka couldn't reach them if they were farther than ten miles away. They were free!

The dragons picked up speed, winging evenly towards the steadily-growing mass of land.

The Lake shimmered, reflecting the dying sun, but by the time the sun set they were long past, soaring over rolling grass.

Below them, the land was _alive. _Animals wandered the earth again, looking up at the passing dragons. Flowers grew, grasses waved, and trees climbed out of the ground.

A hundred thousand minds, big and small, brushed against Murtagh's and he accepted them, glad to have contact after the vast, empty Lake of Mirrors.

_Do you think it's safe to land? _Thorn asked, and his Rider felt the exhaustion.

_Yes, _Murtagh said. _It feels safe. _

Thorn angled his wings down and began to descend. The others followed, their wings stirring the grass and scattering all sorts of strange, wild animals.

Arya started a fire as soon as she touched down, and light blazed on the darkened plains.

_We're safe, _Thorn murmured, as if to reassure himself as well as his Rider.

Murtagh nodded, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed. The Lake spirit couldn't follow them this far, could it?

_No, _Murtagh told himself sternly, dismounting and sliding down to sit against Thorn's warm side. _It cannot. _

They ate quickly and sparingly, devouring a few scraps of dried meat from earlier in their travels. Arya found some berries growing on nearby bushes, and Talon and Faolin found that the striped, short horses were edible.

"Someone should keep watch," Murtagh said, after a while. His neck still prickled uncomfortably.

Arya met his eyes. "Yes," she said. "I agree. I'll keep first watch."

Murtagh nodded. "Wake me at midnight," he said.

The elf Rider dipped her head and climbed up onto Faolin's back, settling in.

Raltin disappeared underneath Talon's inky wing, leaving Murtagh alone in the center of camp, crouched beside the fire.

_Great, _he thought, retreating against Thorn's side. The sky vanished underneath a sheet of red.

_It's alright, _Thorn reassured him, for perhaps the thousandth time since he woke up underwater.

The red Rider smiled thinly, because this was many things, but it was _not _ "all right."

_How are you? _Murtagh asked. _How are you handling it?_

The crimson dragon was silent for a moment. _I am angry, _he said finally. _And scared. The spirit put me to sleep, and I knew you were in trouble but I couldn't wake up to help you. I was scared, Murtagh. What if you drowned? What if it'd killed you? What would I do? I can't—_

A frustrated, frightened growl slipped between Thorn's teeth and he curled tighter around his Rider, as if to block out the wind and the cold and the world.

_I can't lose you, _Thorn said. _I'm not strong like Ophelia or Saphira. If you died… if you died, I'd die too. I can't lose you. _

Murtagh pressed his hand to his dragon's chest, where he could feel Thorn's heart pumping. How strange it was, to be tied to something like _this, _soul-deep. To be dependent on another for life itself, to know that if they died, he would die too.

It scared him.

_But I didn't die, _Murtagh said. _And I won't die, not for a long time yet. We're dragon and Rider, Thorn. We'll be alive for hundreds of years. _

_If the King doesn't kill us first. _

He almost smiled. _Aye, if he doesn't kill us first. _

They fell silent. Thorn began to hum quietly, soothingly, and out here, free from the Lake's power, Murtagh couldn't help but close his eyes…

He fell into a deep sleep, and he dreamed.

"Murtagh," Arya hissed, nudging his ribs.

Murtagh jerked sleepily, tumbling out of his dream and blinking groggily. "Arya?"

"It's midnight," she said. The fire had dwindled to embers and her eyes were little more than emerald slits. "Your watch."

"Ah, right," he muttered, rubbing his face. He couldn't remember much of his dream, only that he had been running, and that long silver teeth flashed at his heels, and he couldn't get away—

_Murtagh? _Thorn rumbled, opening a vast eye.

_Go back to sleep, Thorn. I'm just on watch. _

The dragon closed his eye and Arya returned to Faolin's side, disappearing under his wing.

Murtagh climbed onto Thorn's back, staring out at the vast, wild grassland.

He didn't recognize anything, from his dreams of from the map, but that was to be expected, he guessed. Caspar had traveled far and Murtagh hadn't dreamed the entire journey, only bits and pieces of a whole.

The land was flat, broad, and full of tall, wavering grass. The air was hot and dry, like a desert only marginally cooler. In the distance he could see the striped horses, moving together in a lazy herd, and a dark flash of tawny fur—the large cats were hunting.

It was strangely beautiful, even if it was vastly different from his own home. He'd like to come back here sometime, when the war was over—if they won the war, that is—and just explore the wildness.

It wasn't all peaceful, though. One of the striped horses fell, cut down by a great cat, and the grass stirred as though something walked among it even though nothing was there.

And that prickling feeling of being _watched _still haunted Murtagh, and he couldn't help but think of his blurry dream and shiver.

_I am a Dragon Rider, _he told himself. _Nothing can hurt me here. _

He didn't think about the Lake spirit, or the spirits that were angry with them now.

The night passed slowly, serene and beautiful despite a whistling wind. Murtagh began to doze again, watching the world move around him.

And then, he heard the first cry.

A high, mournful howl, far-off and haunting, drifted over the plains, and then another cry, and another.

Murtagh frowned, jarred out of his comfortable half-sleep. There were wolves out here? It was so warm. He hadn't seen any yet either, since they left Alagaesia.

Another howl broke the fragile quiet, borne by the wind.

A flash of white caught his eye. Murtagh frowned again, standing up and feeling at it with magic.

The blur shifted and came closer, moving very fast, and suddenly, Murtagh was afraid.

A howl burst out of the great white shape, loud and strong, and Murtagh threw a fireball at it but the fire just rolled off the thing.

It kept coming.

"Arya!" the red Rider bellowed, calling Zar'roc to him. Thorn woke up, jerking, teeth bared to meet the fast-moving blur.

The thing hit Thorn hard, howling and snarling, and the red dragon nearly dislodged Murtagh fighting it. Fangs and talons whirled, sullen red fire sparking, and the thing roared, clawing at Thorn's face.

_Get down! _Thorn snarled, eyes flashing, and he lunged at the blur—a wolf, it looked like, but one bigger than anything Murtagh had ever _seen_—furiously, spitting a gout of flame at it.

The thing danced around the fire, jaws flashing, and tried to dive out of Thorn's way to get at Murtagh.

_Mine! _Thorn spat, swinging his tail like a mace. He caught the beast in its chest and hurled it back. It bounced, bones cracking audibly, and struggled to its feet again. Thorn roared and fell on it, teeth an ivory-crimson blur, and within moments there was nothing left of the beast.

Murtagh raised Zar'roc, the hairs on his neck stiff and prickling. "There's more of them," he told Arya, who was at his side with her hands on Ophelia's sword. "There's got to be more of them."

And sure enough more howling broke out and the grasses writhed—three more beasts surged from the darkness, jaws open and hungry.

"_Brisingr!" _Arya shouted, and green fire splattered, swelling. Faolin roared fiercely and lunged, catching one beast and rolling over and over with it. Talon and Raltin became dark blurs, hacking and slashing and wolf-flesh.

"What are these things?" Murtagh roared, slashing at one with his sword, driving it into Thorn's sharp claws.

"Spirits?" Arya shouted back. She and Faolin fought together, trapping their beast between them.

"Damn," the red Rider hissed, firing off another spell. This one hit the beast's neck, snapping it with a crack, and he turned, already ready to meet the next one bursting from the grass.

Silver blood steamed in the air and stained the earth. Teeth and claws flashed, blurring, and Murtagh dropped his head and called up his old wards, turning aside the beast's frantic attacks.

_Look out! _Thorn bellowed, lunging past Murtagh, knocking him flat.

Murtagh turned. The beast he'd killed by breaking its neck was alive! It was on its great feet and fighting again, howling and hacking, caught in a battle with Thorn.

_How do we kill these monsters? _Arya called. She had stabbed and cut at her beast but it was healing, fur and skin flowing over weeping wounds, and it turned to snap at little Faolin.

More and more monsters were coming in from the plains, fur shining and white, eyes flashing a dull, horrible crimson.

_Run! _Murtagh shouted, lifting himself and landing on Thorn's back. _We can't outfight all of them! _

Thorn cleared a path and bounded into the air, wings straining. Faolin scrambled up after him, teeth dripping silver, trembling slightly, and Talon was close behind.

The wolf-monsters, at least a dozen of them now, leaped high into the air, snapping and clawing. Thorn and Talon spat fire, cooking them, and the flaming creatures fell back down the earth.

"_Deloi, waise heil,"_ Arya cried, casting her power down at the earth, and the torn grass mended over.

_Won't do us much good, _Murtagh thought, urging Thorn eastward. The spirits were angry with them, this attack had proved that. They had to keep moving and get to the Forest as soon as possible, that was their only hope.

The white wolves tried to follow the Riders, but soon fell away under the dragons' speed.

Murtagh heard them, though, howling and calling in the distance.

They were being hunted.

_We have to keep moving, _he told the others, crouched low over Thorn's neck. His arm hurt and his head felt fuzzy. _We can't stop, we have to keep going…_

_Murtagh, _Arya said cautiously, prodding his mind. He was too tired and disoriented to fight her off. _Are you alright?_

_Fine, _he said thickly. The sky spun.

_Murtagh? _Thorn rumbled, his voice rising in panic. _Murtagh!_

'_m fine, _he tried to say, but he couldn't form the words. He felt like he was going to pass out—

He fell against Thorn's broad neck, eyes flickering shut, and it was then, as he fought off waves of sickness, that he saw the monster's bite, gleaming dark and bloody on his arm.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Review!**

**Also, I still haven't read _Inheritance, _so no spoilers please? :) I'm trying to keep myself pure so I don't mix my ideas with his. **

**Thanks!**

**~WSS**


	41. Chapter Forty: Predator

**Happy Friday, everybody!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Death borders upon our birth, and in our cradle stands the grave." –Joseph Hall

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Chapter Forty: Predator

* * *

They landed hard and fast, ripping up the earth, and Arya threw up wards so quickly she felt them crack out of her.

The wards settled, scorching the grass, forming a gleaming, protective bubble around the three Dragon Riders, and Arya bounded from Faolin's back to pull Murtagh from Thorn.

He was unconscious, and fading fast. She found his pulse, weak in his wrist, and swore.

_He's dying, _she said tightly, stretching him out in the grass. Murtagh was dying, and she didn't know why. He had been bitten—the wound gleamed, sticky red in the dawning light—but it wasn't that horrible an injury. She had seen him walk away from worse.

_Don't die! _Thorn bellowed, his crimson eyes stretched wide and frantic. _He won't die, you can heal him, can't you?_

_I should be able to, _Arya said, already casting a healing spell over the bite. The red Rider's skin flowed back together and was soon whole and unscarred, but he didn't wake.

Arya frowned, listening to his heartbeat. It was weak and erratic, almost unsteady in his chest, and her frown deepened. Murtagh's breathing was harsh and his hands were clammy. When she checked his eyes, she saw that they were bloodshot, and when she touched his mind she recoiled, surprised at the raggedness of it.

Her heart sank.

"He has been poisoned," she said.

Thorn roared, rearing up onto his hind legs, wings flared in distress.

"And you can't heal that?" Raltin asked. He watched the horizon beyond the shimmering wards, waiting for the huge white wolves to come crashing down on them again. "I thought you were an elf, aren't you good at that?"

"I am not a healer," she snapped. "I am a warrior, and before that, a scholar. I have never needed to know much about poisons, save the rare ones that my teachers found interesting."

_But you can try, _Thorn argued, dropping down to stare at her. His maimed tail thrashed miserably. _You have to try. _

"Poisons are not a perfect art," Arya tried to explain. "There are no set antidotes that I can use—the antidote depends on the victim, the nature of the poison, and a hundred other factors I've never learned. Even if I knew how to cure him, I could still kill him."

_You can't just let him die! _The crimson dragon howled. _You have to do something! _

Arya shrugged helplessly, at a loss. What could she do? She was not a healer—she could just as easily kill Murtagh as save him if she went messing around inside his poisoned body. And that would not be good. She _needed _him. In his mind, he had dreams and memories of Caspar's journey. He had been guiding them all this time, and without him, how would she get to the golden forest?

But he was _dying_. If she did nothing, he would die, and if she did anything, he could still die. She was trapped.

_Do something! _Thorn roared, beyond frantic now. _Murtagh! Don't die, you promised me you wouldn't die!_

What could she do?

_I am a magician, damn it, _she thought fiercely, pushing up her sleeves. _I am an elf, even in exile. And elves do not sit and let their friends die!_

Without pausing to think she dove into Murtagh's mind. It was easy to slip through his shields, as sick as he was, and within moments she was there, flicking through his foggy memories. He was in horrible pain and he felt like he was dying of cold. The pain spread out from the newly-healed bite, freezing his blood, working its way through his body.

He didn't have long left.

_Damn, _Arya snarled. She tried to force magic through him and clear out the poison, but it didn't work—her magic was simply absorbed into the cold, which swelled and swelled.

"_Be healed,"_ she commanded. Murtagh did not wake. "_Be free of poison. Be immune to poison. Be strong again!_"

Again and again she tried to cast a spell that would stop the poison's spread, and again and again the poison defied her efforts.

She didn't know what to do!

_Murtagh! _Thorn howled, and his pain and fear threatened to drown the elf.

Finally, at a loss for anything else, she reached into the center of Murtagh's Rider-bond, the part that pointed his ears, gave him magic, and made him immortal, and _pulled. _The magic tasted like elf-magic, and with it, she sank the red Rider into a healing trance.

The effect was almost immediate.

Murtagh's heart slowed to the point where it was barely beating. His breathing went from short, shallow gasps to slow, even breaths. The pain and cold did not recede, but they didn't spread either.

He was, for now, in a sort of half-state, hovering between life and death. It was the very same state that Arya used when Durza poisoned her, so long ago. It would not stop the poison, not completely, but it would delay it for a while.

She drew back, pulling herself through the ice-cold fog of his mind, and then stopped.

Arya frowned.

_What is it? _Faolin asked, and she startled. She didn't know that he had come into Murtagh's mind with her. _Of course I did, _he said. _You're my Arya. _

A wave of love, so strong it nearly hurt, washed over Arya, and she was, not for the first or last time, fiercely, fiercely glad that Faolin had hatched for her.

_I don't know what it is, _she said, poking at it. It felt…warm, like rock that had been recently melted by dragonfire. She pushed harder, curious despite herself. It did not feel like Murtagh, but it was in his mind, sealed under a hard barrier.

_Murtagh, _Arya called warily. _Is this you? Can you hear me? _

The Rider did not answer, but the warm, hard thing in his mind _moved. _

Arya pushed again, seeking a weak point in the thing. _Murtagh, can you hear me? It's Arya. You've been hurt—poisoned. We need you to fight it. Heal yourself, if you can. Can you hear me? _

The red Rider didn't answer her, but she pushed again and the thing _gave_—

A wave of heat overcame her and she snapped back into her own mind, a cry dying on her lips. Her ears rang with a fiery roar and her eyes watered—her hands, which had been on Murtagh's forehead, were singed.

_Are you okay? _Faolin asked worriedly, curling around her. She patted his nose shakily, nodding and standing again.

Murtagh's eyes moved underneath his lids, but he didn't wake. Heat rolled from his skin in waves, blistering hot.

_What did you _do? Faolin wondered.

_I have no idea. _She tried to enter the red Rider's mind again, but she could not—a wall of heat and flame stood between her and Murtagh, and she did not dare to fight it. It reminded her uncomfortably of the fire-monster she had seen in Eragon, and the memory shook her hands.

_Is he okay? _Thorn asked, nosing his Rider anxiously.

_I think so, _Arya said. She wiped her mouth, shaking her head. She felt _raw, _burned open. A headache was forming behind her eyes. _ I put him in an elf's healing trance. That won't stop the poison, but it will give us more time to find a cure. _

She carefully pressed a hand to the unconscious Rider's forehead, wincing at the heat. He burned as if there was a fire in his veins, but at least he wasn't dying of cold anymore. A fever was a good thing, her mother had always said. A fever means that he's _fighting. _

"So what are we gonna do with him?" Raltin said, nudging Murtagh with his foot. Thorn snarled at him, baring his unnaturally long teeth.

"Keep flying," Arya said. "We can strap him into his saddle."

"And you're just gonna pull a cure out of thin air?"

Arya leveled a cool glare at the indigo Rider, and Faolin joined Thorn, snarling viciously, his tail twitching. "I will figure something out," she told him. "And I might not even need to. A fever means that he's fighting the infection. Murtagh is a fighter. If anyone can beat this, it's him."

And she found that she meant it. She still was not particularly fond of Murtagh or what he was—he was still the reason Eragon hurt for so long, the reason Eragon _died_—but she could not hate the man. Murtagh was the one who had traveled at her side, these long, strange weeks. He was the one who led her on unerringly, convinced that she had the key to Eragon's revival. He had not doubted her, not once, since they began this journey.

Arya could not hate him or wish him dead. In fact, she had rather grown to like his company. He had a dry wit, similar to Rhunon's, and a fierce loyalty to Eragon and the Riders. He was no longer her enemy.

Yes, Murtagh could fight this strange poison. He was as stubborn as Eragon and strong, despite his wounded leg. Hellfire, he fought the Mad King of Alagaesia on his own and survived (barely, but still). A bite, even a poisonous one, wouldn't kill him.

And Arya thought that, just maybe, Murtagh was not alone in his own body. She had seen the fire-creature tearing through Eragon. She had seen how it had increased his strength, made him a nearly-unstoppable force that nothing short of a lightning bolt to the chest could stop. If that same thing was in Murtagh now…

"He'll live," she said strongly, decisively. Murtagh would live. She was sure of it.

Raltin shrugged, his eyes glittering. "As you say. Are we leaving, then?"

Arya was tempted to say no. She was tempted to stay and rest. Their sleep had been interrupted by the wolf-beasts attacking, and they had just flown hard and fast. They, especially the dragons, were exhausted.

_No, _Faolin said, stepping forward. His tail curved into the air proudly. _If those things are still chasing us, we don't want to wait. _

_Are you sure, little one? _Arya asked worriedly. It wasn't fair to him, to push him so hard or fast. He was still young—not four months old yet—and she _worried. _What if they went too far? What if he got too tired, and fell out of the sky.

_I am sure, _he rumbled. His bright emerald eyes met her own, strong and fearless. She hadn't realized until just now that he was taller than a horse. He had grown, these last few weeks, and she hadn't even noticed.

_Very well, _she said. "Raltin, help me with Murtagh."

Together, the two Riders hoisted the sick man into Thorn's saddle, strapping him in securely. Thorn twisted his head around to meet Arya's eyes.

_Thank you, _he said solemnly.

_That's what clan does. _

The red dragon rumbled in agreement, spreading his wings.

Arya mounted Faolin and broke the wards. In the distance, she heard high, clear howls, and her shoulders tensed.

_Let's go, _she ordered, and the dragons shoved off. Once again she made sure to mend the earth—not that it mattered, now that the spirits had unleashed a pack of hellhounds on them—and then they were gone, soaring ever eastward.

Below them, the land shifted subtly from dry, scrubby grasslands to smoother, greener fields, and then hills began to rise, dotted here and there with small woodlands.

And behind them, the howling continued, faint and distant but there, a reminder, a threat.

Night fell. Murtagh was still alive, still burning with fever, and the howls had faded into the wind.

_We should land, _Arya said.

_I can keep going! _Faolin growled, wings straining. _I don't have to stop, I can make it! _

She wondered where this determination had come from, and made a note to talk with him about it later. _I know you can, my dear, _she murmured gently. _But can the others? _

Reluctantly, her little dragon agreed to land and the Riders descended, landing atop a wide, tall hill. Arya threw up the wards again, anchoring them to the earth, and was asleep before she could even start a fire.

* * *

Faolin's frantic roar woke her up.

Arya jolted from sleep so fast she was standing with Erisdar drawn before she knew what was happening. Ophelia's sword still felt strange in her hands, but it was a good blade, and it gleamed in the dim light.

_What's wrong? _Arya asked her dragon, and then she saw.

The white wolves, ten of them, at least, were charging up the hillside, teeth—oddly silver, like sword blades—bared and dripping poison.

_They found us! _she cried, rousing the Raltin. _Get up, get up, we have to go! _

Thorn was already on his feet, thundering a challenge at the charging creatures. They howled, leaping forward, faster than any living thing she had ever seen.

_I don't think the wards can hold them for long, _she warned. _Get up, Raltin! _

The indigo Rider obeyed, mounting Talon, drawing his own blade.

Faolin shoved up, taking to the air at the exact moment Arya released the wards. The Riders surged away, avoiding flashing teeth by inches, and the wolf-demons howled in fury.

_What _are _those things? _Raltin swore, his mind a wave of anger and fear.

Arya couldn't help but think of Lore's stories of the creatures who hunted Esca the black dragon across the land, baying for his blood.

_The Hounds, _she whispered. _Lore called them Death's Hounds. _

Again she was faced with something the elves had sworn could not exist—the Hounds, Death's own hunters, who roamed the world and reaped souls for him. And again they _existed_. The Hounds had bitten Murtagh. They were real.

So could Death, the Lord Ice, the dragon god, be real too?

She didn't have time to think about it. Howls still rang in her ears, too close for comfort. Below her she saw great white bodies charge through the grass and woodlands, leaping at the sky, flashing crimson eyes and silver teeth.

The hounds were still hunting them.

_How do we outrun them? _she thought. The Riders were so tired—first they'd run from the Lake of Mirrors and now they were running from Hounds. They'd barely had any time to sleep in the past four days. How could they keep going?

_We have to, _Thorn rumbled grimly. _We can't let them catch us. _

Arya closed her eyes briefly, struggling to come up with an answer. How did one outrun a Hound?

_We cannot outrun Death, _she thought suddenly, her mind lighting up with it.

_What? _Faolin growled. _You're giving up? _

_No, _Arya assured him. _No, of course not. I just realized, though, why we've heard all these stories. _

_What the hell are you talking about? _Raltin spat. _You're not making any sense, elf. _

_Think about it, _she said, finally, _finally _understanding. _The story of the Army of Leaves, the tales of Caspar, Esca's story, Eragon the First's story, Lore's legends, Rhunon's warnings. We cannot outrun Death, that's what they're teaching us. _

_You've gone insane, _Raltin said flatly. _You're talking about giving up! Letting those monsters catch us!_

_No, I'm not, _she sang, and looked down at the great white wolves. _Don't you understand? They're _chasing _us. _

_Yes, we can see that. _

_No, _said Thorn, his eyes widening. _I think I understand. We can't outrun Death, ever. He'll come for us one day. Everything dies. _

_Exactly, _the elf Rider sang. _The Hounds are chasing us, because we're trying to outrun them, like Esca did in Lore's story. But what if we aren't running from them? What are they doing then._

_Running with us, _Faolin said, his mind lighting up just like her's. _I understand!_

_If we stop running from them, they aren't chasing us, _she explained.

_They'll still try to kill us, _Raltin pointed out, but Arya shook her head.

_No, they won't. Don't you see? Everything runs from Death like they are lambs and he is the wolf. We try and cheat him, use magic and dragon-bonds and sorcery to stay alive, to _outrun him. _And he hates it. That's the one thing that Death hates most, we were told. He hates those who live and run from him. But if we stop running… go to meet him willingly…_

As soon as she thought it, the Hounds stop howling and leaping at the sky.

_If we go meet with Death willingly, he will not have his Hounds kill us. _

In that moment, Arya knew she believed. There was no other explanation for it—there was a Death, and he was angry, and he had Eragon's soul. And she, Arya Shadeslayer, could get it back.

The Hounds stopped howling in fury and instead ran quietly below the Dragon Riders, their eyes bright and crimson and fixed on Thorn.

_No, _she thought. _Not Thorn. Murtagh. They want Murtagh. _

Arya didn't know how she knew it, but she did. The Hounds wanted Murtagh. They were content to follow the Riders for now, because they were, as Arya said, going to Death willingly.

_What does Murtagh have that they want? _She wondered. Her hands tightened on Faolin's saddle. _Is it because they bit him, and he did not die? _

She didn't know, and was too tired to figure it out. They had to land.

_Land, _she urged Faolin gently. _They're not going to hurt us, not now, I don't think. _

_Are you sure? _

_Yes. _

The young green dragon obeyed, warily setting down on a nearby hill, curling into himself almost immediately, shielding her from the Hounds.

The great beasts did not attack her. Rather, they settled down, licking their silver teeth, and didn't even move. It looked like they were sleeping.

Raltin and Talon set down next, followed by a sharp-eyed Thorn, and the Hounds didn't even stir.

_You see? _Arya said. _They know where we're going, and they're going to let us pass. _

_Why? _Faolin wondered.

_I do not know, _she said, warm against his scales. Her eyes were heavy, and despite the giant wolves all around her, she slept.

* * *

Skoll, the Great-Chief-Hound, eyed She-Who-Smelled-of-Flowers and her sleeping dragon.

_Are they a threat? _Rumbled Rarir, his runs-right-flank.

_No, _said Skoll. _Not even the Great-Fire is a threat. He is too busy fighting our death-of-ice. He cannot fight us now. _

Skoll carefully stepped around the sleeping Ones-the-Master-Hated. He did not know how She-Who-Smelled-of-Flowers had discovered the key to calling off the Pack, but she had done so. She had, somehow, convinced the Laws-of-Magic-that-Be that she and her companions were going to the Lord-of-Ice, not running from him, and the Hounds-of-Night had no power to hunt Those-Who-Go. They could only hunt Those-Who-Run.

But the Fire… the Fire was always running. He was Prey. And he was inside the bitten one, He-Who-Smelled-of-Ash. The Fire couldn't fight. He was trapped in the boy.

Skoll bared his teeth in a silver-Hound-grin, and carefully grabbed Murtagh Stormbreaker's arm.

The Lord-of-Ice would be pleased.

* * *

**If you have any questions, just ask!**

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**~WSS**


	42. Chapter Forty One: The Girl

**Disclaimer: Nope, still not owning Inheritance. **

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"'Make a remark,' said the Red Queen." –_Lewis Carroll, _Through the Looking-Glass

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Chapter Forty-one: The Girl Who Would be Queen

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Icy wind whipped around Elva Ghosteyes and she pulled her cloak tighter, hunching down on Zaira's back.

_Are you alright? _The young violet dragon asked.

_I am fine, _Elva murmured, looking down over the enormous lake.

She and the Earl Tariku—a man she rather hated, but tolerated because she needed him—rode the winds above a vast lake, following the Riders' trail.

They had been on the move for three whole weeks now, and Elva was starting to doubt the sanity of her choice.

Three weeks was a long time to be alone with a man like Tariku no Nashuwar.

Zaira helped, of course. The young dragon had a quick mind and a sharp tongue—much like a woman Elva had once known, but wanted to forget—and she and Tresia the Halfling got along well.

This was strange, for most Halflings hated dragons, and vice versa, but Zaira and Tresia were perfectly fine together.

His Majesty had explained it to Elva once. The two souls that had given birth to the Halfling and the dragon, Brynhildr and Amodá, had been twins, a rare, powerful bond among dragons, when the deepest magic bound family and pack together.

Their bond had been strong enough to outlast death, transformation, and rebirth, because Brynhildr's Heart was now feeding Tresia's power and Amodá had been reborn.

Elva smiled, pleased that she could understand such a twisted path. His Majesty had been surprised and pleased, too. He said that even the greatest magicians in his service couldn't understand _that _tricky bit of magic, transforming a dragon's Heart into a Halfling or a living egg.

But Elva wasn't a great magician. She hadn't had years of training, lectures, and rules. She was only three years old, and though she looked about fifteen and spoke like a woman and carried an ancient, she was still a child, still untainted by scholars and theories and other men's thoughts.

Elva was just a girl.

To many (Tariku included), she was a monster. A freak. An abomination, a thing to be tolerated but hated and feared.

But to His Majesty, Elva was _more. _

She was a strange creature, to be sure. Half child and half dragonmark, cursed with magic in her soul and yet free to wield that curse as she pleased. His Majesty had heard of her from his spies and, seeing her potential, called her to him.

The King wooed the girl with promises of a better life, of respect and wealth and power, and she came to him. She spied for months successfully, using her place at Nasuada's side to steal the Varden's secrets.

And then, when she had been discovered, Galbatorix took her away. He saved her life when the Varden would have let her die, and he healed her and fixed the broken magic inside her and gave her Zaira.

Galbatorix had made Elva his heir.

And for a little girl who had been hated and shunned all her life, this was the greatest thing he could have given her.

_We'll land as soon as we see dry ground, _Tariku said, breaking Elva's thoughts.

She looked at him, sitting proudly astride his narrow, bright-eyed Halfling, and blinked. _We shouldn't do that, _she murmured.

_Why not? Do you want to fly until they cannot anymore? _

_We should land as soon as we see living things, _she said.

The Earl snorted. _Are you afraid of the water, _amira?

_No, _Elva said shortly. _This lake is pain. It is evil, and I'd rather not let it drown me. _

She didn't know what was in the lake—a spell, probably, darker than anything His Majesty had ever cast—but whatever it was, it was _pain. _She felt it, all the way up here, flying high on dragon wings. It called to her, an endless, moaning scream, more voices that she could hear, and she knew that it would've drowned her, before Eragon broke his spell and the King mended her mind.

It scared her.

_Hush, _said Zaira, riding high on her flashing wings. _I won't let it hurt you. _

_I know, _Elva murmured, laying a hand on her dragon's neck. _I trust you. _

And she did. Zaira was one of exactly two beings Elva trusted with her whole life; the other was His Majesty. The dragoness was young, not even three months old, but she was young like Elva was young—in body only. Zaira's spirit was as old and magic-scarred as Elva's.

They were perfect for each other.

Elva understood why Saphira Brightscales, once one of the strongest, fiercest things Elva had ever seen, lay on the floor in the King's keep like a dead thing. If Zaira died, Elva would do the same. She felt the pain rolling of the blue dragoness in waves and she wanted to, to—

_Stop it, _Elva told herself. She did not like these feelings. His Majesty called it empathy, the ability to feel what another felt. She and Zaira both had it. They both felt the pain and anger of others, and it was as annoying as it was useful.

_Very well, _Tariku said finally. _I see the shore. It can't be long now. _

They flew on.

_It's amazing the Riders haven't died, _Zaira hummed.

Elva snorted. This was very true. Only a few days ago she had felt the pain and fear of one of the Riders—Raltin, his name was—and the incoming death for the others. They had wandered into the lake and were drowning in it, caught in its evil.

If she hadn't warned Tariku, had him wake Morlansson, then the Riders would have drowned.

_They're all idiots, _she said.

Zaira hummed in agreement. _I want to fight the little green one, _she said with a hungry growl. _He feels…scared. _

Elva smiled. They were three days behind the Rider clan, hanging back, keeping a safe distance while Tariku whispered in Morlansson's dreams. She couldn't feel them from here unless she stretched herself, which she did every once and awhile.

The green dragon was always afraid.

Elva wondered what he was scared of. He was a dragon, for the gods' sake. His fire hadn't come in yet but that didn't mean he didn't have fangs and claws. What could scare him so badly?

_A coward has no place calling himself a dragon, _Zaira said, flexing her ivory talons. _Even the littlest Halfling is never scared. _

_So kill him, _Elva suggested. _If His Majesty lets us, anyway. _

Somehow, the girl doubted that. Thorn would die, of course, and probably the little green dragon's Rider, but His Majesty wouldn't want to waste a perfectly good, young, healthy dragonling. There was no point.

_Maybe he'll let us keep him, _the purple dragoness suggested. _As a plaything, maybe. _

_Maybe, _Elva said, scratching Zaira's brilliant scales.

_One can hope. _

Soon the lake and its screaming pain faded, and animals wandered the earth again. Elva stared down at all of them, fascinated.

She had never seen such strange creatures! She was from the depths of Farthen Dur. She had marched with the Varden across mountains, plains, and forests. She had seen dragons, dwarvish goats, and wolves big enough to ride. But she had _never _seen animals like this!

_What do you think they are? _she asked Zaira, leaning over to look down. Horses with stripes ran alongside strange, big-headed cow-like beasts, and enormous cats, some with great manes of fur, some with spots, and some that ran like elves, roamed in the shadows.

_I don't know, _Zaira hummed. _I wonder if I can eat them? _

Elva laughed, delighted.

_What's so funny, little _amira? Tariku sneered, impatience coloring his thoughts.

Elva ignored him for a moment, watching the strange beasts below. _It's different here, _she said finally. _I've never seen such strange animals. _

Tariku snorted. _In the desert, we called the maned cats _asad.

She blinked. "_Asad_," she said, trying it out. The word sounded strange on her tongue. _Did you have names for the others?_

_I have not seen some of them, _the Earl rumbled. _But do you see those small, dog-like animals there? They hunt in packs. _

With magic, Elva focused on the creatures. They were rather small compared to the _asad, _but they were just as beautiful, with spotted fur, strong chests, and sharp, gleaming teeth.

_We called them _al-Jat, Tariku said. _To meet one in the desert is to die. _

Elva blinked, interested. _Have you meet one?_

_I did, _the Earl said, sounding half proud and half anguished. Elva felt pain well up in him, old and sharp and rusted. _Many, many years ago, when my tribe's blood turned the sand red. _He paused, and she could tell that he didn't want to share more, but she wanted to hear.

Elva frowned, concentrating, reaching out with her mind. She slipped through his loose barriers easily—he was bad at that, shielding his mind—and dug around until she found that pain, and she _pulled_—

_My tribe was gone, _he continued, unaware of her meddling. _And I was on the brink of death. Aji—my _brother _had taken everything from me, my people, my pride, my wife and child. I was shamed, and ready to die. _

_And one of the _al-Jat _came over the hill and licked at my wounds. I thought surely I was to die, for the _al-Jat _aren't merciful. They're hungry, and they kill and eat whatever wanders across them. _

_But this creature didn't kill me. It licked my wounds, and brought me food, and dragged me to water. Because of this _al-Jat, _I did not die. My people's curse and the wolves of the desert kept me alive. _

Tariku paused again, his eyes hooded and dark. _My daughter's name meant "she who walks with spirits." But that day, surrounded by my dead family, I walked with a spirit. That _al-Jat, _whose fur was red and whose eyes were white, that was Kali, our Lady of the Dead. She spared me, and gave me life so that I might—_

And then he stopped, eyes widening, and glared viciously at Elva.

_I do not know what magics our master is teaching you, little _khayal. _I don't care what he tells you. My mind is _my own, _and you are not to use your power on me, do you understand?_

Tresia the Halfling bared her teeth, snarling, for the first time, at Zaira.

Elva met his dark, furious eyes with her own, and she smiled. _As you wish. _

They descended in complete silence.

Zaira hit the ground first, curling around her young Rider, her eyes lurid in the growing dimness. _I think you frightened him, _she said, amused.

_Good, _said Elva. _He should know better than to tell his life story to someone like _me. _That will get him killed. _

_Are we going to kill him? _the dragoness asked. _Would His Majesty allow it? _

_We're not going to kill him, _Elva said, closing her eyes and settling against her dragon briefly. _But one day… _

One day, Elva would be Queen. His Majesty had told her so. He himself was childless. The woman he had loved had died long ago, and he had not taken another since. He did not want to adopt a street child from Uru'baen, either, for he had no idea if that child would be a Rider.

But here was Elva, an orphan—and she _was _an orphan. Her mother (whose name had been Zaira) had died long ago, and the old woman who had tried to raise her in the Varden was _not _her parent—with no family, no friends, no one in the Varden to keep her.

Even better, Elva was dragonmarked and Rider-cursed. A bit of Saphira Brightscales lived inside her, tied to her soul, and a bit of Eragon Shadeslayer gave her great power.

_And _she was now a Rider, learning and growing every day.

No, the King did not need to wander the streets of Alagaesia searching for an heir. He had one, in the form of Elva Ghosteyes, and she would serve him until it was time to ascend to the throne.

She smiled, turning into Zaira's warm side.

Tariku's whispering voice drifted over her as he cast his spell, seeking out Raltin Morlansson to sing poisonous words into his mind.

Tariku wanted to kill His Majesty. He wanted to bring this Raltin to his side and rise up against their master, strike him down, and seize his Empire.

Elva's smile widened. As if he could.

Tariku was much like the _al-Jat _he spoke of, the desert wolves his people feared and respected. He would attack anything that stood in his way.

Elva, on the other hand, wasn't nearly that stupid.

She was only three, after all, and she thought like it, sometimes; the simplest answer was always the easiest one. Why wait to stage a coup when the King would surely die, one day? Why fight him if you had his blessing?

Tariku was not Galbatorix's heir. He wasn't even the King's general. No, he was the King's plaything, a shiny toy that was useful and fun, for now.

His Majesty would get tired of Tariku sooner or later. That was the way of things.

But Elva and Zaira, they weren't toys. They were the King's chosen, his heirs. When he decided to leave Alagaesia, they would step in—it was promised to them.

They didn't have to fight their King, or hate him, or plot against him.

No, they just had to wait, and soon, soon, they would be in his place.

Elva curled up against her dragon, listening to Tariku whisper his feverish words, and Zaira hummed a sharp, blood-hungry dragon-laugh.

And then, the girl who would be Queen slept.

* * *

**A mini-dictionary: **

**Rusalka (from Chapter Thirty-nine: Prey): a mythical Slavic creature, a type of succubus or mermaid-like demon that dwelled in lakes and rivers. They would fascinate people with their songs and dances and then draw them to the lake floor to drown them. **

**Zaira: Arabic, "radiance"**

**Amira: Arabic, "princess," a term Tariku does _not _use respectfully. **

**Asad: Arabic, "lion." The lands east of the Lake of Mirrors resemble our world's Africa, and since the tribes are of the desert, they would be the ones to see this sort of animal. **

**al-Jat: Arabic, roughly "the hungry." They are hyenas, and in tribe mythology, bringers of death. **

**Kali: the Hindi Goddess of death. In Alagaesia, she is the tribal incarnation of Lord Ice. **

**From other chapters: Skoll (the Great-Chief-Hound) is from Norse mythology, and he is the wolf that chases the sun. Fenris, from the chapter "Blood," was the Norse son of Loki, also a wolf, whose strength was great and terrible until he was overpowered by the gods and bound with a ribbon. **

**If you have any questions, please just ask! Review!**

**~WSS**


	43. Chapter Forty Two: Death's Women

**Hey everyone! Sorry about the mini-wait, real life is a horrible institution. **

**This is the third-to-last Traveler chapter! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. **

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"Who am I? Why am I here? What is it that I'm searching for in this strange place, day after day?" –_The Last Unicorn_

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Chapter Forty-two: Death's Women

Sight was nervous. It was hard to notice at first, because Sight didn't show much other than disdain for Traveler and annoyance at his slow pace, but gradually Traveler became aware of some of Sight's twitches, the way he looked over his shoulder every now and then, the tense line of his mouth and set of his shoulders.

"We're being followed," Sight finally said, his face glowing red and orange from the fire's reflection.

Traveler glanced behind himself curiously. All he saw was the fire and the creatures that lived inside it, basking in its warm passion.

This very same passion throbbed inside Traveler like a heartbeat, warming his blood and filling him to the brim with flames.

He liked the feeling. It made him feel almost _alive, _and fragments of memory—_happyness rage love pain hate joy determination_—flooded him, stirred by the heat.

He was so _close _to the end of his journey he could almost taste it.

"I don't see anyone," he said.

Sight snorted. "You wouldn't."

"What do you see?"

The older guide's mouth thinned into a hard line. "Something that makes me wish your friends were with us."

"My friends?" Traveler asked. "Don't you know them too?"

"Aye, but not from life. I met them here. Most of them, anyway."

"Did they ask you to help me?"

"You ask a lot of questions, do you know that, little fool?"

Traveler shrugged. He liked knowing things. Guide said that there was nothing wrong with that.

Sight snorted again, turning down another firelit path. "We have to hurry now. If _they're _after you, we don't have much time."

"They?"

Sight glared. "The _celaeno. _Death's women."

"Death's _women_?"

"The Winged Ones, yes," Sight said, scanning the dark, smoky sky. "You'll understand if you see one. They are not to be trifled with. I am surprised that you've gotten this far without attracting their attention at all."

"What do they do?"

"Again with the questions! They guard these Lands. They keep the borders, fish the sleeping out of the water, and keep all of us under control."

"So they're like soldiers?"

"Worse," Sight said grimly. "We can take them one at a time, usually, but in a flock there's no stopping them."

_They must be horrible, _Traveler thought. Sight didn't strike him as the kind of person who scared easily. "Why are they following us?"

Sight gave him a flat look. "You, little fool."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You, and those of us who help you, are breaking Death's rules. He, it seems, is finally taking notice. I'd pray for the soul of whatever kept him distracted for so long, actually. He cannot be happy."

Traveler chewed his lip thoughtfully, basking in the warmth of the fire. He was breaking Death's rules? The thought both disturbed him and turned his will to iron. He didn't want to anger Death—who others called Lord Ice, and some long-forgotten voice had once called Angvard—but he also wasn't going to stop until he reached the end of his journey.

He'd come this far. He would not go back to the rivershore, to stop and sleep and turn to stone.

_I will not, _he thought viciously, and the fire flared brighter around him.

Sight looked at him with gleaming eyes. "There's some fight in you yet, little fool. Come. We must hurry."

They began to run with the speed of the elves, fleet and strong. The flames wrapped around them, hiding them, and high above, Traveler heard a faint, chilling screech.

"_Barzul,_" Sight swore. "They're going to catch up!"

"What happens if they catch us?"

"Death's women are not kind," he said flatly. "You they will probably spare. Me, they will Shred."

That did _not _sound good. "Shred?"

"Destroy me utterly." Sight's face was carefully still and flat. "I am not their favorite, and they are the only creatures that can completely kill a soul. They get their claws in and then you're gone."

Traveler had a sudden memory of a yawning, widening abyss, and a sliver of ice crept in among his warm, fire-filled veins. He knew, somehow, that if these things caught Sight, they'd throw him into the abyss and he'd be gone forever, and Traveler would _not _allow that, not to anyone, let alone to someone who'd helped him.

"I won't let them," he said fiercely. "I'll kill them, if I have to."

"You can't defeat a flock of them, little fool."

"You said they wouldn't Shred me. Death wants me here, right? So I'll protect you. I won't let them Shred you, not for helping me."

Sight looked at Traveler strangely, his head tilted to the said and his eyes bright and piercing. "Do you mean that, little fool? Do you really mean that?"

"Yes," said Traveler in the ancient language, his voice thrumming with fire and magic.

Sight threw back his head and laughed. "You are," he said, "a strange little fool, aren't you? What are you made of, dragon's fire?"

Traveler blinked angrily, not knowing whether to be insulted or not.

Sight laughed again. "Peace, child. There's nothing wrong with dragon's fire. Mine own family blood runs with it."

Traveler nodded shortly, still scanning the smoky sky. He didn't see any sign of the creatures, but he heard their far-off cries, and they made his hair stand on end. "How close are we to the Land of Sky?"

"Not far."

They ran. Flames leaped around them and other souls stirred, leaning out of their way. They too, even the great, fire-lit dragons, watched the sky nervously, hunkering down into their flaming nests with growls on their faces.

_Everyone seems afraid of these things, _Traveler thought. Were they really that fearsome? And then he thought of the yawning abyss, and the claws that could put him there, and he shivered.

"Come!" Sight bounded ahead, pulling fire into a long sword. The screeching grew nearer and nearer. "Your only hope is dragon wings, little fool. Come, quickly now, quickly. Even Death's Women cannot outfly a dragon."

"Where are the dragons?"

There were some here of course, but they shied away, determined to stay in their fire. Traveler let them—he didn't have time. Sight was running ahead and he didn't want to lose his guide, not here in this maze of twisting flames.

"There!"

Up ahead, the swirling fire just _stopped. _A cliff dangled into empty air, the burning trees of the Fire Land reaching out and grasping at nothing.

"_There?_"

"Call a dragon to you, little fool!"

"I am not a Rider!" Traveler knew in some deep, instinctive part of himself that only Dragon Riders rode dragons. It was _law, _as old as storytelling and winter hunger and soft hands on his forehead. He couldn't ride a dragon!"

_If you do not, you will be caught,_ Sight boomed in his mind. The fire roared high, scorching, urged by magic, and from the sky, something fell screaming, beating long, heavy wings against the flames.

Traveler couldn't see what it was, but it screamed and screamed, the sound popping in his ears. He chewed his lip. The fire in his blood sang.

_Live, _it said. _You must _live.

_How do I call a dragon? _

_Figure it out, little fool, _said Sight. The edge of the Land of Fire was getting closer and closer.

_What do I do? _Traveler tried reaching out with his mind, but he was blocked, somehow, by a horrible wall of claws and feathers. He tried sending a spell out into the Land of Sky, but again, he was blocked.

_What do I do?_

He tripped, stumbling over a burning branch, and hit the ground with a grunt, scraping his palms. His throat burned, thirst swelling and sharpening almost unbearably, and the screeching swelled. He was going to die—!

In a panic, reacting more on the desperate firesong of _live _in his chest, he summoned a spark of magic and pressed it into the center of his palm, where the strange, silvery scar shone, and cried out _Help me!_

At once, there was an answering roar, far louder than the screeching of Death's Women, and then another, and another.

_Good fool, _Sight said approvingly, pressing his hand to his own mark—_dragon-mark, _whispered an ancient memory, _Argetlam, Dragon Rider_—and calling out.

From the Sky Land plunged two dragons, hurtling towards earth as fast as they could. They did not pause to land, but somehow that didn't matter: Traveler simply followed Sight's lead and together they jumped, landing on dragonback easily.

At once, Traveler felt like he was _home. _He howled joyfully as the dragon sped up, surging upwards and winging away from the Land of Fire.

_I am a Dragon Rider!_

_Indeed you are, little one, _rumbled a smooth, strong voice. It was the dragon! _Welcome home, child. _

_Thank you for saving me, _he said. He remembered that it was important to be respectful to dragons, thought riding this one opened a new, raw, bone-splitting ache in his chest. This dragon wasn't _his _dragon, for he was a Dragon Rider. Where was his dragon? Had they died too?

_Your dragon is not dead, little fool, _said Sight.

_How do you know? _

_You would have found each other. Though Death may break the bond, he cannot keep two entangled souls separate forever. _

_So where's your dragon? _Traveler asked. _You're a Dragon Rider too, you have the same mark as me. _

_Very good, _a new voice chuckled, and a third Dragon Rider swooped beside them astride his own. _He has you figured out, doesn't he, Sight?_

_Shut up, _muttered Sight.

_I am Heart, _the newcomer said. _You must ignore Sight, he's rather foul-tempered when he's being chased. _

_The _celaeno _are after the boy, _Sight snapped. _Can't you hear them?_

Sure enough, if Traveler listened, he heard the screeching in the distance. _You said they can't catch us, right?_

_Not right away, anyway. _

_They are out in force here too, _Heart warned. _Lord Ice does not want our young friend to escape. _

_You think? _

Heart snorted. _I see your manners have not improved. _To Traveler, he said, _your journey is nearing an end. We can take you to the Vault of Souls. _

_The Vault of Souls? _Traveler had heard that name before, he thought, but he couldn't remember… Before he could forget, he also added the knowledge of Dragon Riders into his flask. They glowed, and the flask was nearly full.

_I am remembering, _he thought, filled with fierce pride.

The dragon laughed. _I have heard much about you, little one, _it—she—said. _You are everything I expected. _

Traveler blinked, nonplussed.

The she-dragon laughed again, her voice wild and strong. _You may call me Vervada, _she hummed. _Welcome to the Land of Sky. _

_Are you my guide for this land?_

_No, _Vervada rumbled. _I am not. But I heard your call, and who am I to refuse you? _There was something that felt horribly like _affection _in her voice, like love-pain-hatchling-of-my-nest, and it hurt Traveler's heart.

_Why me? _He said.

_One day, _the dragoness told him, _you will understand. _

_I am your guide here, _said Heart gently. _Hello. _

_Hello, _Traveler murmured. His heart hurt, tinged with Vervada's wild pain-love-joy. He remembered feeling something like this _before, _mingled with heat and lightning—

The screeching grew even louder, and off to the side Traveler saw a flash of dark feathers and wild, billowing hair.

His blood ran cold, and Sight swore. _We don't have time for pleasantries, _he said. The dragon he was riding snarled viciously, side-eying the swirling feathers.

_Are you ready to come back to us? _Heart said seriously, blinking solemnly at Sight.

The other snorted, leaning low over the dragon's shoulders. He met Traveler's eyes, and the younger saw fire—_dragon's fire_—gleaming there.

_Aye, _said Sight. _I think I am. _

_Then go, _said Heart. _I will see you at the Vault. _

_Storm-cleaver, _Sight called. _Fight with us?_

Vervada snarled, shuddering underneath Traveler. _Any other day, brother. May your hunt be good. _

Sight smiled sharply, conjuring up another sword of fire. _And yours, Storm-cleaver. _

_Wait, _Traveler blurted. _You're going to fight them? But I promised to protect you. _

_I shall see you again, little fool, _said Sight. And then he and the dragon were gone, turning away with fire flashing around them. _It's less a hunt and more a chase!_

_Idiot, _Heart muttered, though he sounded almost pleased. _Congratulations on surviving his company for so long. _

_He's not that bad, _Traveler defended.

Heart laughed. _No, I suppose not. Death has tempered him, somewhat. It helps that there is no drink this side of the Land of Blood. _

_Drink?_

_No water or beer of any kind, _said Heart. _You're thirsty, aren't you?_

Traveler was. His throat actually _burned, _and he ached for a drink, but there was nothing to drink.

_It's alright, _Heart said. _You can drink soon. We're almost there. _

They flew on.

The screechings alternately faded and grew stronger. Sight was out there in the dark sky, dancing with them, and Vervada's thoughts ached and filled Traveler with a sort of longing that only fueled his determination.

_You are ready, aren't you, _Heart murmured. He was smiling, perhaps a little sadly, settled across his dragon's back. Traveler liked him almost immediately.

_Ready?_

_To go. _

Traveler shifted. He was ready to go, he thought. Ready to finish this journey, to go _back_—

Vervada hummed, that old ache inside her swelling until it spilled over into Traveler. He accepted it, this time, embracing the hurt. It fueled his determination because he felt like something was _missing, _something deep and important and tied to his soul.

_A dragon, _he thought. _Am I a Dragon Rider?_

Heart smiled. _Aye, _he said. _Do you see the mark on your palm? It is called the Gedway Ignasia. It's the mark of a Dragon Rider. _

Traveler flexed his hand, enjoying the wind whipping through his hair. A Dragon Rider. It felt _right. _

Behind him, the screeching surged, coming nearer and then falling away, mixed with a dragon's roars. Traveler itched to go back and _fight, _to help his friend like he'd promised, but Heart shook his head.

_Sight doesn't need your help, _he said. _He can fight on his own. He will meet us at the Vault of Souls. _

Traveler glanced behind him reluctantly, but nodded. He'd trust this Heart, he thought. _And the Vault of Souls is the end of my journey?_

_Yes. You'll be going home soon. _

_Home, _Traveler thought. What was home? All he had of _home _was blurred memories of snow and cold and hunger, of a tent fluttering in the breeze and a dragon's back, of a warm, rough laugh and bright, glittering eyes, lined with age.

_Why did you choose to live in the Sky Land? _

Heart smiled. _Let me tell you a story, _he said. _Once upon a time, there was a young man who lived in a great city with his brother and his dragon. He was a goodhearted young man, but foolish, and so when the world started to crumble around him, he thought that he could save it all by himself. _

_Needless to say, he could not, and in trying to protect his friends by fighting alone, he lost all of them. _

_When his friends were dead and his world destroyed, this young man fled deep into the wild and lived for many years as a wild animal. He did not speak with men and ran with wolves, and he learned their stories and howled at the moon. _

_And then, when the young man was no longer young, he came out of the wilderness and saw what had become of his precious land, and he decided to change it. And so he did. He fought against the armies of darkness and killed it where he could. He did much good in the world, and though he was lonely and angry and bitter, he was again good. _

_And then he met a woman. He should not have loved this woman, for she was not his to love, but he did anyway, and they were, for a time, happy. _

_When the woman became pregnant, they made plans to hide her away so they could be a family in peace. _

_The man's other responsibilities called him away for a short time, and he swore to return. He went off to save the world, and when he came back, she was gone. _

_Later, he learned that she was dead. She had been terribly weakened by her pregnancy and she had died sometime after giving birth. _

_The man was devastated because again he had tried to protect his loved ones and again he had failed. He retreated again to the wilderness and again he ran with wolves. _

_But his child was still alive. _

_He could not, despite his past pains, stay away, and soon he hunted down his child and stayed with him always, even though he could not claim him. _

_The man grew to love his young son, and for many years he watched from the sidelines, until one day it was time to take the boy on a journey. _

_The man and the boy grew close, as a father and a son should, and they had many adventures together, and the man loved his son dearly. _

_When the boy's life was threatened, the man decided that he would not fail this time. His mind told him to flee, to _survive, _but his heart told him to stand in front of a knife's blade for the child, and so he did. _

_He died without ever telling his son who he was. _

Traveler blinked, pulling his mind away from Heart's slightly, wincing at the pain of his thoughts. _Why did you tell me that?_

Heart chuckled. _You never were good at riddles, were you? Very well. Think on what I told you. What happened to the man in my story?_

_He loved too much, _Traveler said. _He tried to protect people and he died. _

_He tried to protect people by pulling away, _Heart corrected. _He listened to his mind in all things and lost everyone he loved, until the very last fight. _

Traveler frowned and Vervada hummed. _Did the man save his son's life?_

_Aye, _said Heart, and it might have been the bitingly cold wind, but Traveler thought that Heart was weeping. _He saved his child. _

_He listened to his heart, _Traveler said. _He didn't fail that time. _

_No, _said Heart. _No he did not. _

Traveler thought on that. How could someone go through so much pain and still live? How could someone lose _everyone _they loved, dragon and brother and lover and friends, and still keep fighting? How could they find it within themselves to love again, to _die _for another person?

And then Traveler thought of his blurry memories, love and pain and joy all wound together so tightly he couldn't breathe, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could understand dying to save someone.

_I think I understand, _he said. Something that tasted like lightning fizzled on his tongue and his chest tingled.

Vervada hummed.

_You have grown, _Heart murmured. _Always listen to your heart, young Traveler. No matter what anyone else tells you. Life is not worth living if you have no one to protect. _

Traveler nodded dumbly, all the swirling emotions making it hard to think, to breathe.

_Hush, little one, _said Vervada gently. _Don't struggle. Just fly. _

And they did. On and on they flew, and gradually the sky lightened, shifting from smoky gray to something bright and hot.

Traveler's throat burned. He just wanted to drink, to sleep, to go _home_—

A terrible, piercing scream shattered against his ears and something large and dark slammed into Vervada's neck, clawing at her and flaring storm-gray wings.

Traveler couldn't help but cry out in shock.

The thing was horrible.

It had the body of a large bird, a vulture, maybe, all bristling feathers and strong, hard talons. But it had the face of a beautiful woman, her skin pale and her ice the color of flawed ice. Her tangled hair billowed madly and when she smiled, it was with a mouth full of jagged teeth.

Traveler's blood ran cold and he grasped his sword as it dug into Vervada's neck, taking one threatening, hissing step forward—

Heart lashed out with magic, blasting the thing off of Vervada, and then suddenly Sight and his dragon were there, ripping into the screaming thing and letting it go—

"_FLY!_" Sight bellowed, falling in beside Vervada. _There's more of them! _

Sure enough, more of Death's Women were hurtling down, shrieking like mad things.

Blood, or something like it, streamed from Sight's face and chest, and his dragon's wings were unsteady.

_Are you okay? _Traveler asked anxiously, remembering Heart's words.

_Fine, _said Sight. _Now _fly.

Heart was throwing magic up at the creatures, his face determined. They flew on, dodging to avoid diving beasts, and land was spreading below them, the silver river flowing out, grass and trees spiraling up—

_Traveler! _Heart howled, and Traveler half-turned, but he wasn't fast enough—

A raven-haired creature caught Traveler in the side, and he tumbled from Vervada's back down into the cold, clinging river below.

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**A note: _Celaeno _is the name of a harpy of Greek myth. The harpies were half bird, half woman creatures who, depending on the story teller, served Death and led and guarded the souls in Tartarus, the Greek realm of the dead. **

**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	44. Chapter Forty Three: Burn

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Bitterness is like cancer. It eats the host. But anger is like fire. It burns all clean." -Maya Angelou

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Chapter Forty-three: Burn

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_Murtagh walked through the slim trees, enjoying the light on his face and the warm air. This little forest was comfortable, filled with birdsong and dancing leaves, so peaceful he thought he might just sleep—_

_But he was not alone. He could feel someone else moving between the trees, hear light footsteps cracking dry leaves. He frowned. _

"_Hello?"_

_The presence, whatever it was, didn't feel threatening, but he had lived too long to trust in simple feelings. He gathered magic at his fingertips and tightened his grip on Zar'roc, planting his feet. _

_It was then that he realized he could walk without any pain, and his eyes widened. _

"_Finna," whispered an old, lilting voice. "Peace, little war-child. I mean you no harm." From the trees stepped an old man, his face weathered and cracked. He wore painted stripes on his skin and clothes made out of animal skin. He leaned heavily on a spear made of bone. _

_Murtagh knew this man. _

_He'd dreamed of him, once, and then he had told his story to Arya and the others on the lakeshore. He was the one who had shown Caspar the truth of the gods. _

"_My name is He Who Runs in the Sky," the old man said, smiling gently. "But you already knew that, didn't you, child?"_

_Murtagh nodded, stunned. Was this real?_

"_It is a dream," the wild chief hummed. "But that does not mean it isn't real."_

"_Why am I here?" Murtagh asked. _

"_You need my guidance."_

_The red Rider blinked, confused and still wary. _

_The old man spread his hands wide, a gesture of peace and friendliness. "You are lost, young Dragon Rider. Clinging to a hope against hope, fighting a war that you cannot win, hurt and proud and afraid. And you are about to die."_

_Murtagh straightened, looking around him wildly for any threat. He didn't see anything, but how could that be? The chief had spoken in the ancient language—his words were truth._

"_In the waking world, you are in grave danger," He Who Runs in the Sky explained. "If you do not wake soon, you will die."_

"_Then let me wake up!" Murtagh cried. He shook his head furiously, pinched his thigh, even pressed Zar'roc down into his hand, and though his blood welled up bright and red, he felt no pain. _

"_Peace," said the old man again. "You are here because you need my help."_

"_I can't die yet! I have to save Eragon first, I have to go back to the Varden—_"

"_Child," said the old man. "Come. Walk with me."_

_Reluctantly Murtagh did, because he had no better way to wake up. He didn't want to die here, and maybe the old man would help him? He'd said that Murtagh needed it. _

"_In the land you come from, the old ways have been lost," the chief hummed. _

"_The old ways?" _

"_The ways of the land, and the spirits. You have forgotten your roots and struggle to hold on to the broken ground. Yours is a dark and dying land, little fire." _

_Murtagh shook his head irritably. "I don't have time for this!"_

_The old man met his eyes. "You must, if you want to succeed in your quest."_

_The red Rider fell silent. _

"_I have met a few souls from your land, and all of you walk in the darkness. You are blind."_

_Murtagh shivered. He remembered the chief saying those very words to Caspar centuries ago. _

"_I am here to help you see."_

"_See what?"_

_The chief smiled, his face old and worn. "Your true self," he said. "Who you are, and what you must become."_

"_You showed Caspar," Murtagh murmured. "You showed him what the universe was made of and gave him the faith to continue."_

"_Though this time, I expect I shall show you something else entirely," the old man laughed, and led Murtagh on. _

_The woods deepened, growing darker and thicker, but even in the densest trees, light still gleamed. Soon the ground became soft and well-worn, and Murtagh saw footprints, a hundred thousand of them, both human and animal and dragon, imprinted into the earth. _

"_This is the Long-Walked Path," the old chief explained. "Every true heart will walk it, either in their waking or their dreaming."_

_He led the red Rider to a deep, sparkling pool of water. It was far smaller than the Lake of Mirrors but deeper, so much deeper, and Murtagh thought that it couldn't possibly have an end. _

_As if reading his mind, He Who Runs in the Sky smiled. "It does not end," he said. "And it will not, until its time has come."_

_Murtagh licked his lips. He was aware of a pain, very deep and very strong, swelling in his chest. _I'm dying, _he thought. He had to hurry. "What do I do?"_

"_Bleed into it," the old man said, leaning on his spear of bones. "Let it drink of your life."_

_Murtagh flexed his hand, cracking open the scab and letting fresh blood well up. He carefully squeezed the wound, letting blood drip down his fingers and into the deep, sparkling water. _

"_Now smile," said the chief. _

_Murtagh took a deep breath, remembering his dream, and whispered "_see_," kneeling on the soft ground and peering into the water. _

_His blood spread out in faint ribbons, mixing and blending, and magic shimmered. And then, nothing happened. _

_The pool remained deep and still, reflecting only his face and the chief's, old and tired and bright-eyed. _

_He waited. His muscles cramped and the pain grew—he was _dying _and he needed to wake—_

_And then the water sparked, way down below. _

_Murtagh leaned forward, trying to see, and he bent until his nose almost touched the water—_

_The spark grew, blooming upwards, and grew fangs and claws and wings, and Murtagh tried to pull away from the horrible thing but he could not, and it swallowed him whole—_

Why do you run from me, _rumbled the deep, ancient, fiery voice. Murtagh knew that voice. It was the voice of Eragon's fire-spirit, of the thing that had given him wings to fly across the battlefield and take a lightning bolt meant for his brother. _

Why do you run from me, _the thing rasped. _

You got Eragon killed, _Murtagh snarled back. The heat of the creature blistered his skin. _

I protected the child. I gave him strength and power.

You fed off his anger and fear.

That is what I am, little human, _the fiery beast roared, its eyes glowing coal-red. _I am anger and fear, and rage and hatred and love and joy and passion too.

_Murtagh glared. _You used him, _he accused. _You made him kill against his will.

No, _laughed the beast. _I _helped _him kill. I broke down the barriers inside him that would have him die. I saved his life, and Roran Stronghammer's, and yours too, if I remember. What is evil about me, little man?

_Murtagh's mouth thinned into an angry line. He wanted to shout "you let him die!" but he could not, because, really, he let Eragon die too. _

_The realization, this truth that he had been denying all this time, crashed inside him, and the fire-creature seemed to shiver. _

I don't know, _Murtagh admitted, his voice thick with pain. _

Then perhaps, _said the creature, drawing closer, its flames burning but also healing, warming his skin, _I am not evil. Perhaps I just _am. _

_Murtagh stared at this thing, that had been in Eragon and Roran and him too, he remembered the feel of it. _Perhaps you are, _he said, and the creature laughed a dry, fire-crackle laugh. _Are you what I needed to see?

Perhaps. I have a proposition for, child.

A proposition?

You are dying, _said the creature. Another spear of pain lanced through Murtagh's chest. _The Hounds are trying to pull me from you, and you'll die if they succeed.

Why will I die?

_The fire-beast growled, pressing its nose to his chest, where the King's lightning had slashed into him. _The Hounds have you, _he said. _One of them bit you, and a Hound's bite is poisonous. There is no one nearby who can pull it from you, and if you do not wake soon, you will die. I can save you. I can burn the poison out.

_Murtagh's blood ran cold. He would die? This _thing _was keeping him alive? _So what do you want from me?

Serve me, _said the creature immediately. _Hide me from my Enemy, and wield me as I am meant to be welt.

What do you mean? What are you? _Somehow, Murtagh knew already. _Are you the Lord Flame?

A part, _said the creature. _Half of the whole.

_Murtagh swallowed. _And you want to use me?

My power is also broken, _said the Lord Flame. _When I escaped my brother, my self was broken. I cannot _act _as I am meant to, and the world suffers for it.

And what is it that you are meant to do?

Burn. I am meant to burn, child. That is my duty to this world I helped create.

_Burn? _

I am the purging fire. It is I who burns down sick forests and devours evil. This is the duty my Mother and Father gave to me.

_Murtagh closed his eyes, the pain and fire rushing at his skin. A god. He was being asked to serve a god. And the god-chosen never did well in life, did they? They were always torn, always killed, always broken at the end. _

_But Eragon… _

_If he did not do this, he would die. And the others needed him. They needed him to get Eragon, and Eragon needed him, and the Riders needed him. _

_Too many people needed him. _

_He thought of Nasuada, for just a moment, and the thought bowed his head. _

Very well, _he said, his lips dry and cracked. _I will serve you.

_The Lord Flame laughed, his eyes bright. _Then you have done what you are meant to do, child. Now wake.

_And then it was gone and Murtagh reeled back from the deep pool, his eyes wild. _

"_Peace," said the old man. His eyes were soft and kind. "Peace, you have seen."_

"_Seen what?" the red Rider choked. _

"_What you must become," said the old man. He pressed his fingers to Murtagh's forehead. "From this day forth, my brother, your name shall be He Who Burns. Make the stars light your path."_

_Warmth and light rushed down Murtagh's back, and his tongue burned, ice tore from his veins, his eyes flew open and he rushed up—_

"_Wake!" cried the old man, and then—_

Murtagh woke howling, lashing out with magic to rip at the nearest Hound. It fell, yelping, and the others rose their voices in confusion and anger.

Murtagh choked, staggering to his feet, and his arm throbbed, but he was _alive. _

Fire blazed inside of him.

_Thorn? _he shouted. _Where are you?_

His dragon didn't answer, and Murtagh couldn't feel him. He was alone against the Hounds.

The great white wolves circled him, silver teeth flashing, their red eyes gleaming.

"I see you are awake, Lord Flame," said the largest one.

"I am not the Lord Flame," Murtagh said strongly, and he found that he was not. The fiery thing was no longer inside him—he couldn't feel it at all. It had gone, to hide from the Hounds, presumably, or back to its other half.

But he was alive with its _power. _

_Is this what it meant? _he thought. Was _this _the cost of serving the beast? All of its fire and strength?

_Burn them, _whispered a voice in Murtagh's mind. _Burn them all. _

And so he did. In one smooth motion he drew Zar'roc, lunging forward with fire backing his movements. The first Hound fell under his whirling sword, slashed to the bone. It tried to stand again, but its leg didn't heal as it had before.

The others thundered in shock and fury, leaping at him, but Murtagh turned, diving their dripping fangs and slashing at throats and sides and faces.

Silver blood flew.

Murtagh moved with frightening speed, as fast as any elf, and caught their flashing fangs with his sword. He grinned.

All of his old speed and strength was back. After months of struggling with the lightning-wounds, hating how much they _hurt _him, he was _back. _

Hounds fell and fell again, their wounds deep and lasting.

Zar'roc flashed, signing joyfully, and together Murtagh and the sword danced, spraying the air with silver blood.

"Run!" the largest Hound bellowed, his eyes wild and furious and _frightened. _"Fall away!"

The remaining beasts did so, bounding off into the night, their fur bloody.

And then Murtagh was left with the biggest monster, and they locked eyes.

"Damn you," said the Hound coldly. "Damn you and your spirit-cursed blade. You have chosen the wrong master to serve! You will regret this, little fire-child. I will _make _you regret this!"

And then it too was gone.

_I survived, _Murtagh thought, nearly delirious with battle-blood. He had survived the Hounds! And killed many of them, it seemed.

He exaimed Zar'roc, running his fingers over the lightning-scarred blades. The wounds it had given hadn't healed. Is that what the spirits had done to it?

Murtagh shrugged, shaking the thought off. Later he'd wonder about his magicked sword and the contract he'd just made with the god of fire.

_Thorn! _he called. _Where are you?_

He leaned on Zar'roc, limping out of the woods. He could fight again, it seemed, but the lightning-wounds weren't healed. Strangely, Murtagh found that he didn't mind.

He limped to the edge of the trees and scanned the skies for any sign of his dragon. _Thorn! _

And then, far away, he heard Thorn's answering roar, slamming into Murtagh.

_You're alive!_

_Yes, _said Murtagh. _I'm alright. _

_I thought you were going to die, _said the dragon, his mind a whirl of relief and love and worry. _You were sick, you wouldn't wake up—_

_I'm fine now, _Murtagh assured his dragon, wrapping him in warm thoughts. _The Hounds couldn't hurt me. _

_We're coming, _Thorn said anxiously. _What happened?_

Quickly, Murtagh shared the story of his dream and the deal he'd made, and then of his fight with the Hounds.

Thorn shared his own story, of how Murtagh had fallen sick and they had stopped the Hounds by refusing to run from them.

_We're alive, _Murtagh marveled. He could hear wingbeats now, heavy and strong.

_We're too annoying to kill, _Thorn said fondly.

_Too stubborn to die. _

Three blurs appeared in the distance, riding the wind towards him.

Thorn came fastest of all, a great crimson streak, and slammed into the ground to bound the last few hundred feet before surrounding his Rider.

_Don't do that to me again, _Thorn rumbled.

Murtagh laughed softly. _I'm not going to die, Thorn. _He had a god looking out for him now. He would be alright.

_And how are you? The Hounds didn't hurt you? _

_No, _the crimson dragon promised, nosing his Rider. _You smell different. Almost like… fire. _

The red Rider shrugged. _A consequence of my deal, I'd imagine. _

He still didn't know what the deal entailed. The fire-dragon hadn't specified. He'd only said _serve me. _What did that mean? Did that mean burning the world, like it had said?

_I'll sort it out later, _Murtagh thought. First, he had to rescue his brother. He mounted Thorn, letting the dragon carry him up to the others.

Arya looked him over with her cool green eyes, and he might still be a little dizzy from the dreaming but he thought she looked… _concerned _and relieved.

_You're alright? _she asked. Faolin hummed his own inquiry.

Murtagh smiled slightly. _I'm fine, _he said. He placed his hands on Thorn's back, relaxing into the saddle. _Just fine. _

_Excellent, _Arya said.

Murtagh shaded his eyes against the growing sun, looking into the east. His smile widened. He saw trees. _Come, _he hummed. _We're close. We're so close. _

And the Dragon Riders flew off into the east, the dawn light growing and edging them in fire.

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**We're getting to the end of the journey here, folks! Woo!**

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	45. Chapter Forty Four: The Forest

**Hey! Sorry about the wait, my life has recently been a blur of ohgodschool and ohgodwork. But I'm on break now, and writing, so hopefully I'll get a few more chapters done! **

**A Katrina chapter is in the works, and then probably Roran, and then Traveler. We're getting near the end of this arc! Woo!**

**A big thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted, and fav'd! You guys are the greatest!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"All changes are more or less tinged with melancholy, for what we are leaving behind is a part of ourselves." -Amelia Barr

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Chapter Forty-four: The Forest of the Mother

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_We made it, _Arya thought as Faolin settled down onto the soft, mossy earth. Thorn and Talon landed beside Faolin, twitching their tails, careful not to disturb the perfect ground.

_This is the Forest of the Mother, _Murtagh said, awed. _We _made it.

The Forest was beautiful. Trees towered, taller than any tree in the Beors or even Du Weldenvarden, to high they seemed to be brushing the sky. All the leaves were yellow and rich gold, rustling in a gentle wind, and the roots dug deeply into the soft soil.

The sky itself was wide and blue, bluer than anything Arya had seen except maybe Saphira's scales, and perfectly cloudless. On the western horizon the sun set and on the eastern the moon rose, and for a moment they looked like two eyes.

_Father Sky, _Faolin whispered, nosing her ear.

Arya smiled and scratched his scales. This was the place, she _felt _it. This was the end of Caspar's journey, where Death lay in wait, where Eragon slept, just waiting for her and the phoenix feather to wake him up.

Arya checked the feather, turning it over in her hands. The edges were graying again, but as a whole it was still vibrant and alive. The spirits had given it an extended life, and they were going to make it. They were going to bring Eragon back.

"This is the Forest?" Raltin said, and there was a strange expression on his face that Arya couldn't name.

Murtagh nodded, his eyes shining. He carried himself taller now, Arya noticed, like his injuries didn't hurt anymore, like he wasn't afraid anymore. She wondered what had happened to him, when the Hounds took him. He'd come back a different man.

"This is it," he said. "I'm sure of it."

The Forest lay across a grassy field, gleaming and golden, and Arya licked her lips. "Shall we?"

Murtagh nodded, and he and Thorn led the way, moving across the grass together. Old, heavy magic, much like the wards of Du Weldenvarden, prevented them from flying in, but they walked easily enough, side by side and silent.

_We're here, _Faolin sang, his eyes sparkling happily. _We made it! We're going to get Eragon back!_

_Yes, _Arya said, determination settling in her gut. _Yes we are. _

As they walked, the grassy field became narrower and narrower, pushing the Riders together until their shoulders brushed and then Arya saw it, and she gasped.

The Forest of the Mother was an island.

The huge roots of the trees dug into the earth and dangled off the sides, twisting down into the empty sky. Their half of the world ended abruptly, tumbling over and just _stopping. _In the distance, Arya thought she could hear water falling.

And then she felt _squeezed, _all of her bones crushed together for one breath-stopping moment, her eyes forced into her skull and her fingers snapping, the world dimming to a single prick of light and sound—

She choked, rushing back to herself, and she realized she'd fallen to her knees. Faolin howled, experiencing the same thing, and a quick look told her that the others had felt it too.

"What the _hell,_" Raltin wheezed, clawing at his throat.

"Magic," Murtagh panted. His eyes were firmly closed. "It separates _this _from the rest of the world. We've left the living world."

A shiver ran down Arya's spine and she leaned on Faolin for support.

They had left the world of the living, the world of the elves, the world of the Dragon Riders. They were alone out here, and she was _frightened. _But she steeled her spine and curled the phoenix feather tight to her chest.

_Come, _she said, and kept walking down the narrowing field. The grass was soft and cool, the wind sweet, and the trees seemed to whisper _come closer, child, come closer. _

As they came, the sky changed.

The bright, clear blue of the living world _shifted, _boiled black and streaked with fantastic colors. Stars, more than Arya could ever count, speckled the sky like scales and great shimmering clouds of purple and red and yellow rolled like dragon's fire. The whole sky seemed _alive _and again she thought of the legend of Father Sky, and wondered if Mother Light really was bound in the golden forest, if the gods really were watching.

In the heavens there was a terrible, thunderous roar, and from the boiling clouds two enormous dragons rolled, tangled in each other, fighting viciously.

One dragon was pitch-black, darker than night itself, and he bled from a thousand wounds. The other was whiter than freshly-fallen snow, and he too bled, and these two great, ancient dragons spun and turned and slashed at each other, locked in an eternal dance.

_Esca and Khorne, _Thorn rumbled, watching the dueling spirits. _Harmony and chaos. _

_Balance, _Arya thought uneasily, and turned away. Her skin prickled.

"We're almost there," Murtagh said. Sure enough, only the narrow strip of land tying the forest to the rest of the earth remained, bridging the deep, wild gap.

Arya took a deep breath and climbed onto Faolin's back. "Let's go," she said, and Murtagh and Thorn led the way, picking their steps carefully.

The earth-bridge groaned under their feet, but it did not crumble. In the heavens the two spirits roared and fought and on earth the three Dragon Riders made their way across the bridge, magic rippling down their skin and a thousand thoughts whirling in their heads.

_We're here, _Arya thought, and Faolin took that first step off the bridge into the Forest of the Mother, and the golden light was so strong for a moment that it was blinding.

It was beautiful, this close. The forests of the living world—even Du Weldenvarden—were only shade and shadows compared to _this _gleaming, pure thing. Arya could barely breathe for the joy of it.

_It's amazing, _Faolin whispered, nosing a golden tree. Ivy crept up the bark to meet his nose, tickling and waving merrily before vanishing.

Faolin laughed. _It's alive! _

"Don't touch anything," Raltin said warningly. "We don't want to anger any spirits."

"There are no spirits here," Murtagh hummed. The look on his face could only be described as completely, utterly _peaceful. _

"How do you know?"

The red Rider tapped his forehead, smiling slightly. "Caspar's memories," he said. "And instinct. There are no spirits here, only a few lonely souls."

Arya wondered what he meant by that, but decided not to ask. Now that they were _here _in the Mother's Forest, they could find the Rock of Kuthain and the Vault of Souls. They could get Eragon and bring him home.

Murtagh took them deeper and deeper into the forest, following a path only he knew. The forest seemed to greet them, and flowers and ivy bloomed in their wake.

Once, in the depths of golden light (for there were no shadows here), Arya thought she saw a dragon curled in the sun. _A lonely soul, _she thought, and kept moving.

They wound their way through the gleaming woods, silent and at peace, soaking in the light. It felt _good, _after these long months of pain and fear and darkness. It felt good just to bask in the warmth, to let it fill her up until her sorrow was banished and only determination remained.

They passed enormous, moss-covered rocks now, and those had shadows, albeit small ones. Somehow Arya knew that they weren't naturally part of the Forest of the Mother, and she thought of Lord Earth, who gave his body to imprison his brother.

"_Welcome, young travelers," _whispered a gentle, lilting voice, and Arya's hand went to Erisdar. The voice laughed. "_Peace, young elf. I mean you no harm."_

"Who are you?" Arya asked.

Murtagh smiled. "This," he said, pointing to the top of a rock, "is Caspar the Wanderer."

On top of the rock, there was a figure, and he was so covered in moss and flowers that he looked light part of the rock himself. The figure smiled, and the moss split open, revealing an ancient, worn elf with faded eyes and a tired smile.

_Caspar. _

Arya didn't see any traces of the proud young elf warrior who had so passionately spoken out against the bonding with the dragons. She didn't see the broken man who had left his people, nor the joyous one who had returned.

She saw years, thousands of them, carved into his face, and grief and sorrow weighed on his shoulders. But there was peace too, and contentment. He was _happy _here, on top of his rock, letting the world turn without him.

"_You have travelled far,_" old Caspar said. "_You have made an impossible journey, and learned something along the way._"

"Aye," said Murtagh, bowing to the old elf respectfully. "And I thank you for your memories. They guided us."

Caspar's mossy smile widened. "_You do not have to thank me, He Who Burns. I was asked to share my memories across a land, and I did so gladly."_

"Asked by whom?"

"_You cannot know all the secrets, little flame," _Caspar chided gently. "_I have been here for millennia and I do not yet know all there is to know. I can only be, and watch, and learn. That is all any of us can do against the forces of the universe._"

Murtagh straightened, thoughtful.

"Caspar," Arya said, before she could stop herself. "You were—you were forgotten by the elves."

The old Wanderer inclined his head.

"Doesn't that make you angry?" She thought of her own banishment and how it still _hurt, _to be stripped of her people.

Caspar stood, his bones creaking, and then with more grace that she would have thought, leaped down from his rock and came to stand in front of her. "_Oh little child," _he sang, tenderly, raising one worn, mossy hand to cup her face. "_Oh little one, why would it make me angry?_"

His hand was warm and Arya couldn't help but lean into it. "Because they're your _people,_" she whispered, and tears stung the back of her eyes. She would _not _cry, damn it. Not over this. She was done mourning her exile. "Because you loved them enough to leave them, because you couldn't bear to see them destroyed."

"_And to this day, I do not regret that choice. I left the elves first out of spite, and then again because I could not bear to stay. I love the elves. When I found the Army of Leaves by that cursed lakeshore, I mourned. But I love the rest of the world too, my dear. I love the humans, and the dwarves, and the dragons, and the birds and the trees and the animals. I lost my people, but I _gained _so much more._

"_And so you have gained more, haven't you, little one? Look around you. You have lost the elves, but you have gained a dragon, and loyal friends, and the chance to bring your lover back."_

Arya thought about that, and she didn't stop the tears now, let them track down her face, hot and salty, over Caspar's warm hand.

The ancient one smiled at her, radiantly, and pulled her close. "_You are an honor to your people,_" he said. "_If they choose to forget that, then they have lost their greatest princess."_

"Thank you," Arya whispered, and Caspar stepped back, looking at all of them now.

"_You have come so far for ones so young. And you have farther to go yet. You have given so much, but you still have more left to give. Beyond that clearing lies the Rock of Kuthain. Since Esca's rebellion dragons have been barred from the Vault, but you may enter. You know what to do._"

"Thank you," Murtagh said again, offering another bow, and this time, Caspar bowed back.

"_It has been my honor,_" he whispered, his voice fading again, blending with the wind and the rustling leaves. "_And remember, He Who Burms, Lord Ice demands everything. You must be prepared to give him what he asks of you, or your quest will be in vain._"

"What does that mean?" Murtagh shouted, but Caspar was smiling again, settling down on his rock.

"_And Arya,_" he said, for her ears only, "_make sure you look for your true name. I think you'll find that it has changed._"

And then he was silent and still.

Arya blinked away her tears, leaning on Faolin. _Yes, _she thought. _I believe it has. _

They left Caspar sitting on his rock and went deeper into the forest, and sure enough there was a broad clearing with a mossy log, and beyond that, a fast-flowing silvery river and an enormous rock.

Murtagh stilled. "I've been here before," he said softly. He left Thorn at the log and went to stand at the river's edge.

Arya joined him, and she gasped.

The river was full of faces.

Man, woman, elf, human, dwarf, dragon, Urgal, a hundred thousand faces and memories flowed past, winking, and were swept away.

_The Lady Water, _Faolin whispered. _Who gave herself up to create a barrier Death could not cross, whose blood was poisoned so Death could_ use _her. _

"And that is the Rock of Kuthain," Arya breathed.

Even Raltin seemed disconcerted by the water. "How do we get to the Rock?" he asked.

"We have to go in," Murtagh said. "And then speak our true names to open it."

"Is that safe?" Raltin muttered, clearly remembering the Lake of Mirrors and its power.

But Murtagh, who the Lake had almost taken, nodded firmly. "We are alive," he said. "It only takes from the dead."

He turned. "Thorn, you can't come with me."

The crimson dragon snarled unhappily, starting forward, but he could not come closer than five feet from the river's edge: he was blocked.

Faolin and Talon tried to reach their Riders also, but they could not.

Caspar had spoken the truth.

Something fearful and painful twisted in Arya's chest, and she looked into Faolin's wide emerald eyes.

_Don't leave me, _he begged. _Please don't leave me, there's got to be another way to get Eragon_—

_It's only for a little while, _she choked, sorrow writhing beside her heart. _It's just for a few minutes, Faolin. I'll come back, I promise. I won't leave you, I won't let Death keep me, not this time. _

_Please, _he said, but she turned away. She could not—She couldn't stay. This was the only way to bring Eragon back. She had to bring Eragon back.

Murtagh and Thorn were having a similar conversation, it seemed, if the twisted grief on the red Rider's face was anything to go by, but Raltin and Talon were calm.

"Come on," the indigo Rider said. "The sooner we go, the sooner we can get back to them."

Murtagh nodded, turning from Thorn, and Arya did not—could not—look back.

Her heart was breaking.

_Faolin, I love you, _she whispered, in the ancient language, in the human's language, in the dwarves' language, in any and every language she knew. _I love you, I love you, I'm coming back for you, don't be sad. _

_Don't go, _Faolin said raggedly.

_I must. _

He quieted. She did not look back. _I know, _he said heavily, too heavy for one so young. _Just don't stay. Come back to me. _

_I will. _

Arya took another deep, shuddering breath, and stepped into the river.

It was cold. Colder than the Lake of Mirrors, colder than the Hounds' breath, colder than anything, but it didn't hurt.

She took one step, and then another and another, walking beside Murtagh and Raltin.

Each step pulled at her chest, at the Rider-bond, and Faolin roared in pain, but she kept walking.

She was crying again, and so was Murtagh, and even Raltin, but they didn't stop. They walked through the river until they could lay their hands on the Rock of Kuthain.

_Arya, _Faolin cried.

_Speak you name to open the Vault of Souls—_

"_He Who Burns,_" Murtagh said, and the Rock groaned.

Raltin had to think for several long, painful moments, but he opened his eyes and spoke. "_He Who Salts the Earth_."

Arya closed her eyes, feeling the Rider-bond stretch and scream inside of her. Tears trickled down her face, mingling in the river, and she saw Faolin the elf's face, Glenwing's face, Eragon's face. The phoenix feather tickled her palm.

She knew what she had to do.

"_She Who Shoulders the Weight,_" she said, and the Rock of Kuthain cracked open, right down the middle, revealing a deep, swirling pit where the river flowed and silvery light spilled up.

_The Vault of Souls, _she thought. Murtagh took her hand, and she offered her other for Raltin.

"Ready?" the red Rider asked.

Arya thought of Eragon, and the pain fracturing inside her, and Caspar's decree that no dragon could enter. Her chest hurt.

She closed her eyes.

_Don't, _Faolin whispered. _Please, don't. _

She thought of Caspar, and what he had said, and of the old stories of her people, the stories of sacrifice, of love, of courage to do the impossible.

_Please. _

_Sometimes, _she said raggedly, _sometimes this must be. Sometimes we have to give what we love up, for the greater good. Can you understand that? I'm not doing this because I want to, but because I _must. _Because the world needs Eragon, and I can bring him back. Can you understand that? _

Faolin fell silent.

She hurt.

"Ready?" Murtagh asked again, his own voice trembling with agony.

"Yes," she said, and jumped.

As she and the others fell down into the Vault of Souls, the Rider-bond simply… broke.

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**Review! Have a great day, dearies :)**

**~WSS**


	46. Chapter Forty Five: The River's Friend

**Katrina chapter! Woo!**

**Some notes: A lot of people have been commenting that if the Rider dies, the dragon dies also. This is a misconception. The _movie _says this, not the books, and the movie overlooks one very important thing: _Shruikan. _His Rider died, and he still lives, which makes me think that it a dragon's death after the Rider's depends entirely on the individual's strength. Sorry for the confusion!**

**Also, yes, there are many, many things going on in the story right now, but don't worry! All plots will merge soon, I promise! If you need any clarification, let me know!**

**Thank you for reading and reviewing!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"From caring comes courage." –Lao Tzu

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Chapter Forty-five: The River's Friend

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_This, _Katrina thought, _is not what I planned. _

She straightened under the load, carrying the basket across her shoulders like she'd seen some of the other women do, and followed the shuffling crowd from the small watershed.

The slavers shambled beside them, hurling insults and lashing out, striking anyone they deemed too slow or too lazy.

Katrina hated Dras Leona. She hadn't meant to come here, as a _slave, _no less, but she and Albriech had been captured just beyond Feinster a month ago and they hadn't had a chance to escape.

The city was a pit. It wasn't even that it was a large city—she could handle those. She had been handling them, ever since leaving the Varden's outpost to find Roran.

It was that Dras Leona was a filthy, demon-worshipping, slave-trading, hate-breeding _cesspool, _and she wanted to _leave. _

_But I can't, _she thought unhappily, shifting the basket's weight. She didn't know where Albriech was, and she wouldn't leave without him. Horst's son had been her constant companion on this long journey. He'd saved her life, kept her company, made sure that she and the baby were alright. She couldn't reward his loyalty by _leaving _him.

And besides, her baby would come soon. She would not have her child out in the snow, surrounded by bandits and death. Even Dras Leona was safer for her child, at least until the Varden came.

_I have until spring, _she comforted herself, falling beside another young woman. _I can last that long here. _

Katrina could outlast Dras Leona. She'd done it before, after all, high up in Helgrind's prison. At least here she had food, sunlight, people to _talk _to. The slavers wouldn't beat her, either, not while she was pregnant. She could make it to spring, easily.

_Roran, _she thought, feeling the ring in her pocket. She'd had to hide it quickly, when the slavers came, and they hadn't found it yet. She only put it on at night, in the safety of her shack.

She hadn't realized how much she'd come to rely on the ring's comfort.

Katrina shook herself, banishing thoughts of her husband and homesickness.

Here, daydreaming was a good way to get beaten or starved or worse. Katrina, despite hating this kind of work, didn't want to be sold. She was fine here, and she didn't know what would happen to her in another's home.

"You look worried," the woman walking beside her said, gently. "I'm Merida."

"Katrina," she smiled back. "Nice to meet you."

Merida quirked her lips. "Most don't say that," she said. "Most say, '_piss off' _and report me to the guards."

"Most people are idiots," Katrina laughed. "Grumpy, bitter idiots. I won't report you to our dear friends the guards."

Merida actually laughed, a sharp, quick burst of birdsong. She ducked her head down right after, so the slavers couldn't pick her out of the crowd of shuffling slaves. "Where did they find you? You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," said Katrina. "I'm from the north, but they caught me by the lake. I was trying to cross it to get to Belatona."

"Belatona?" Merida arched an eyebrow. "Ah, running to the Varden's arms, were you? Why not go to Feinster, or farther south? The Varden runs everything down there, and the slavers dare not go into Surda."

Katrina smiled faintly. "My husband is in Belatona. Or was, I don't think he is anymore."

Merida blinked, eyes sharp and bright. "Your husband's a Varden soldier, then?"

She smiled again. "Something like that. Where did they find you?"

"I'm from here," Merida said, a note of bitterness sliding into her voice. "My parents sold me last year, to cover our debt. I've been in the fields ever since."

"I'm sorry," Katrina said, and she meant it. "Parents should protect their children, not sell them to tyrants." She thought of her own father and her throat burned, and she turned away.

Merida noticed. "You too, eh?"

The young woman didn't answer, pressing a hand flat to her belly. She felt her child there, stirring. She wouldn't make her father's mistakes with her baby, she _wouldn't. _

Merida patted her arm gently, face compassionate, friendly. "You seem like a reasonable woman," she said. "Tonight, stand outside your shack when the moon is highest. I'll come get you then."

Katrina blinked, nonplussed. "Why?"

The other woman's smile was sharp and dangerous. "You'll see," she said, and vanished into the crowd of marching slaves.

Katrina stared after her, confused, and shook her head. Dras Leona was a strange, strange place.

"Stay away from her, if you want to live," another woman hissed, sliding in beside the redheaded woman. "She's trouble, that one."

"Why do you say that?" Katrina asked, still keeping up her friendly tone, but something about this woman seemed _off. _It made her skin crawl. "She seems nice enough to me."

The woman spat, eyes flashing darkly. "She is not a Believer," she snarled. "Merida the Faithless, Merida the Heretic, bah!"

"What do you mean?" Katrina frowned now, confused and alarmed. For some reason, Helgrind's shadow seemed longer now.

"She does not _believe _in the Brotherhood. In the power of Helgrind and its gods. She does not believe in the blood, and the sacrifice! Her presence threatens us all!"

Katrina remembered Helgrind and the cold, and the dark, and the Ra'zac's claws. _These people _worshipped _that, _she though, stomach rolling. She had to fight not to recoil from the woman.

"Stay away from Non-believers," the woman hissed. "If you know what's good for you, you'll come to the ceremony at high moon tonight, and be bathed in the blood of the gods. If you do not come…"

Katrina plastered a fake grin on her face. "I would be delighted to attend, friend," she said, and the woman nodded, pacified.

"Stay away from Merida," she whispered, and then she too vanished in the marching crowd.

_Strange, _Katrina thought again, darkly, and continued on, moving through the people. Her basket weighed heavily on her shoulders and her child stirred against her belly. The city loomed overhead as the slaves came in from the fields, men and women mingling together.

Katrina searched the masses for any sign of Albriech, but she couldn't find him. It was as if he had simply disappeared, lost in the vastness of Dras Leona.

She hoped he was sensible enough to stay away from the Believers. She knew what she was doing tonight—meeting Merida, _not _going to Helgrind to be baptized in blood. She'd had enough of that hateful place for a lifetime.

Once inside the city, Katrina followed the line and set her load down in the allotted areas, then waited patiently for the overseers to check off on her load.

They did, and since it was evening she was free to go, though _free _was a loose word. She was technically _free _to wander the slave quarter of the city, but she couldn't go beyond that unless under escort. The slavers were rather strict about it. Apparently when news of Belatona's fall reached the quarter, the slaves had rioted, seeking freedom of their own.

They had failed.

_Not a bad idea, though, _Katrina thought. A rebellion of the slaves… There were thousands of slaves in the city, far more than overseers or even soldiers. If they were _together, _if they were armed—

Katrina occupied herself with thoughts of rebellion as twilight fell, thick and heavy, over the city of Dras Leona. She settled outside the shack she shared with two other pregnant woman, Liora and Sel, watching the slaves go by.

Most were exhausted, defeated. But some carried themselves high, ignoring the stripes on their backs and the sores on their hands. These people reminded her of Roran, and for a moment she missed him so much it hurt.

_I should not have left the outpost, _she thought bitterly. It had been a mistake, but she had made it, and _meant _it. She couldn't leave Roran alone in his grief, not after Eragon's death. He needed her, and she would go to him.

Once, he'd promised never to send her away again, and she had made the same promise. She could not leave him. And so she would not, even though it had led to _this. _

She'd get out of the city soon enough, or wait until spring.

And then she would find her husband, and shake him furiously for nearly _dying _on her.

"What're ya doin' out here?" Sel said, standing in the doorway. She wasn't as far along as Katrina was, but she'd already had two children, both of whom had been sold. She carried pain in her shoulders, and fire in her eyes.

Katrina knew that slavers wouldn't take this baby from her.

"Waiting," Katrina said.

"For the ceremony?"

Katrina's smile grew hard and pained. "Yes," she lied. "What is the ceremony?"

"The High Priest will baptize all new slaves in the blood of a Sacrifice," Sel said, and her voice sounded dead. "Didn't peg you for a Believer, girl."

Katrina relaxed. "I am not," she muttered. "I've seen enough of Helgrind for the rest of my life. But I was told to go, tonight."

"Don't," Sel said. Her eyes narrowed. "Merida talked to you, didn't she." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"That girl," Sel muttered. "You be careful. I like you, Katrina, and Merida and hers play a dangerous game, especially in this city. Watch out for them."

Katrina nodded, taking the warning to heart.

"Be safe," Sel said, and vanished back inside the shack.

Katrina watched her go, and then turned back to the slave quarter. People were leaving now, as the moon rose, shuffling eagerly (or not so eagerly, in some cases) to the doors, waiting for an escort. Outside the walls the city was stirring, people leaving by the hundreds to go to the altar.

Katrina's skin itched. What did they worship now, now that the Ra'zac were dead?

The moon rose steadily and her child kicked, bumping her hands. She smoothed down her ragged dress. _Peace, my little one, _she thought. _Peace. Your mama's not going to do anything stupid tonight, I promise. _

Finally, the moon shone high above the city, and Merida came from the shadows.

"You waited," she said, satisfied. "You didn't join the rest of the cattle for the ceremony."

Katrina shook her head. "I don't worship gods who demand blood."

"That is generally a good idea," Merida said, and held out her hand. "Come. We have much to see before the sun rises."

_Sleep isn't one of them, then, _Katrina thought, but stood anyway, taking the other woman's hand. "Where are we going?"

Merida smiled that sharp, knowing smile again. "To the dark and secret places. The slavers don't know everything about this city. The Believers don't have all roads covered. The river always finds a way out."

_Strange, _Katrina thought, resigning herself to it, and let Merida pull her along.

They wound through the dank, smelly slave quarter, and as they went, they gathered more people, men and women, though the men stayed behind and the women moved to walk with Merida.

No one spoke. Katrina flattened her hand against her stomach, and didn't speak either.

Finally, Merida stopped at a dirty wall, and knocked three times.

"The wind and the willows fan the flame," a voice hissed, from inside the wall.

Katrina blinked.

"The river swallows it whole," Merida replied, and then a door, hidden in the cracked wall, swung open. "Come, sisters, brothers," she said, and led them down.

There was a narrow stairway, as old as the city itself, carved into the wall, and down they went.

"The city was built by women," Merida explained. "The men were out fighting against the other city-states and the women built Dras Leona to protect them, and so many secret places like this were created, in case the city was ever overrun. The tunnel system goes everywhere."

"Like Uru'baen," Katrina murmured, remembering Storyteller Brom's old stories.

"Exactly," Merida said, and led her deeper.

They went through what felt like miles and miles of tunnel. "The slavers don't care?" Katrina asked. "They don't notice that we're gone?"

"All the slavers are Believers," Merida said. "They go to these ceremonies every month, and leave us free to roam the quarter. So we come here."

She led the silent group into a huge, wide tunnel, and flames burned low alongside the walls. Some people were already waiting for them, lined up together, heads bent.

"Sister Merida," a sharp-faced woman snapped, striding over. A big, scarred man followed, his face carved into a scowl. "How dare you bring an outsider here, on such a sensitive night! She could be a spy!"

"I am not a spy," Katrina said, eyes flashing.

"Her husband is a Varden soldier," Merida said soothingly. "She won't betray us."

"What rank is your husband?" the woman snapped, and Katrina didn't even think to lie.

"General," she said, and everyone who heard gasped.

The sharp-faced woman drew herself back. "You lie," she said coldly.

_In for an inch, _Katrina thought. _Sorry, my little one, I broke my promise. _"I am Katrina Ismirasdaughter. Roran Stronghammer is my husband."

"Liar!"

"No!" Katrina shot back. "Ask me anything about him, our village, what have you, and I will answer."

"Where was Stonghammer born?" the woman said, glaring.

"Carvahall," Katrina said, "but not in town itself. His family lived ten miles outside, on their own farm."

"Why was the town burned down?"

"The Empire burned it down after Roran led us into the Spine. They had come for him because he is Eragon's cousin, and they sought to hurt Eragon."

"Why are you not at his side?"

"I went to one of our outposts to protect our child," Katrina said. "And then Eragon died. I was journeying to meet my husband again, but my escort and I were captured by Leona Lake, before we could get to Belatona."

The scarred man leaned in, his eyes sharp. "Why does Roran carry a hammer, instead of a sword?"

"He carries a sword too, actually. Eragon taught him how to fight. But he carries a hammer because of a legend among the northern people, the legend of Gerand. He fights with a hammer because he is not a soldier—he is a _fighter, _defending his people."

The scarred man drew back. "She knows Stronghammer," he said. "I don't know if she's his wife, but she knows him, and well."

Katrina pulled the ring from her pocket. "This was given to us on our wedding day," she said. "Created and spelled by Eragon Shadeslayer himself. It is a magic ring. Feel it for yourself." She handed it to the man and the woman, and they felt its weight and the magic carved into its sides.

The man, at least, was satisfied. "Welcome, Katrina," he rumbled. "We are the River that runs beneath the city."

_The River, _she thought. She bowed. "It is my honor," she said, and the man bowed back. The rest of the gathered slaves bowed to her also, accepting her in their midst.

Merida grinned like a madwoman.

The sharp-faced woman narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "You will be interested to know, then, that the Varden is on the move."

Katrina blinked. "What?"

"The Varden is moving," the sharp-faced woman said, louder so all could hear her. "They have left Belatona and are marching on the city!"

"How do you know?" Katrina breathed.

"Slaves hear all," Merida whispered. "We are everywhere, but no one sees us. We know _everything _about this city."

The Varden was coming! In the winter, too, which meant that Dras Leona wouldn't be prepared…

They could fall.

"We have to fight," Katrina said, and the sharp-faced woman snapped back around.

"Excuse me?"

"We have to fight inside the city," Katrina said, excited. "The soldiers will be focusing on the outside, far away from us, and they won't expect us to fight back—"

"We do not—"

But Katrina cut her off. "You said that you know the city, and its secrets and secret places," she said. "So _use _them. Fight! You rebelled before, when Belatona fell, rebel again!"

"We lost many in that rebellion," snapped the woman, "and it was for naught."

"You won't lose again," Katrina said strongly. "Dras Leona will fall. It must fall. The Varden is strong, they are prepared, and they have _Riders. _What does Dras Leona have? A bunch of blood-worshippers! Cripples! Men too twisted to stand against the Varden's onslaught."

The other slaves buzzed, murmuring among themselves. Merida bounced at Katrina's side, downright _gleeful. _

"I knew you were special," she said. "I _knew _it."

"So you propose that we fight?" said the scarred man. "And who will lead us? You?"

Katrina blinked, taken aback. "You won't?"

"I will," the scarred man said, "and so will my companion, but there are too many slaves for just two. You are a General's wife, and clever. Will you help us?"

_This is insane! _She thought. "Do you want me to lead because I am Roran's wife?"

"No," said Merida, "I want you to lead because you're _strong, _aren't you? You've faced the demons of Helgrind."

"What?"

"I've seen your scars," Merida said, gently. She pulled up the hem of her shirt to reveal deep, purpled scars, carved by claws.

_Ra'zac, _Katrina thought with a jolt, because she had those very same scars, remembered those hot, dirty claws slicing into her skin.

"You have survived Helgrind," Merida murmured, the firelight gleaming in her eyes. The others whispered, awed, impressed. "You're strong."

_Strong enough for this? _Katrina wanted to ask. _Am I strong enough for this?_

"Well?" said the scarred man. "What is your answer, Katrina, River's friend? Will you help us lead? Will you fight, even though you might die?"

Katrina thought of Carvahall, burning to the ground. Of Roran wading through bodies and blood. Of the Ra'zac, and her father. She met the scarred man's eyes. "Yes," she said, hand flat on her stomach. "Yes, I will fight."

The sharp-faced woman smiled. "Then," she said, "come. We have much to do." And she took Katrina's shaking hand, leading her to the center of the room.

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**See? Plots converging! Katrina is in Dras Leona, where the Varden is going and Roran is headed. :) **

**Thanks for reading!**

**~WSS**


	47. Chapter Forty Six: Baldr, Tyr, Zisa

**Happy weekend, everybody! I hope you enjoy this! The plot continues to converge- in this chapter, you will learn what has become of Saphira! Traveler chapter up next!**

**Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed! You continue to rock!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inheritance Cycle.**

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"Ages when custom is unsettled are necessarily ages of prophecy." -Walter Lippman

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Chapter Forty-six: Baldr, Tyr, Zisa

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Roran looked up at the huge, dark gates, shuddered, and pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He _hated _Dras Leona, hated the whole stinking place with a passion, and he wasn't even in the city yet.

He remembered Helgrind though, and the long line of maimed, mad people marching to worship at the Ra'zac's feet, and that was enough to make him hate the entire city on principle.

"Are you ready?" Jensen whispered, at Roran's side. The two men walked together in the middle of the Red Guard, completely anonymous in the mass of soldiers. Up front, Jared had assumed the leader's position and was speaking to the leader of Dras Leona's Guard.

It had taken them only a week to get from the Red Guard's camp to Dras Leona, even in the middle of a snow storm. Roran had planned to go around the lake and approach from the north—it was too risky to get close to Belatona before he received word from Lady Nasuada, the Varden might butcher his men—and had fully intended to stick to that path, but then Solembum had arrived.

The werecat, after he'd snarled about running around after idiotic king-children (Roran didn't understand that insult, not really), had taken them _across _the frozen Leona Lake, right to Dras Leona's door.

Roran had at first been skeptical. He was from the north, he knew frozen water. He knew how useful ice could be, but also how _dangerous. _There wasn't really a way to tell if a snow-covered lake was solid or not, not really. Ice might look solid and then turn out to be fragile, especially with a few hundred men tramping across it.

But Solembum had insisted. "It's the fastest way," he'd snapped, "and you need to be in Dras Leona _now._"

"Why?" Roran had asked, and Jared and Tak, who were serving as his advisors, nodded.

"The Varden is going to attack Dras Leona," Solembum had said. "They have just begun their march. They'll be at the city within five days."

"_Five days_?" Roran had hissed. "In the dead of winter? What is she trying to _do, _incite a mutiny?"

"You're doing the same thing," Solembum pointed out, "marching in the snows. No one expects an attack in the winter. Dras Leona will be caught by surprise, and unable to defend itself. And if I get _you _in, you can take it down from the inside. The city will fall."

After learning that, Roran really had no choice but to take the Red Guard out on the ice.

It had been a hard, harrowing three days. They had covered a surprising amount of ground, considering, but still. The ice had creaked and groaned underneath them the whole way, and they had nearly starved before the few magicians found a way to spell up fish, but they had _made _it, and no one had died in the cold.

And now they stood at Dras Leona's gates, relying on the Empire's fear of the Varden to let them in.

"Where is Captain Derek?" the captain of the City Guard demanded, narrowing his eyes at Jared. Roran's friend, to his credit, stood firm.

"Our Captain was lost," he said. "We were attacked by strange, wolf-like creatures, and our Captain died in the last attack."

"Have you proof?"

"Here," Jared said, and Roran knew he was handing the other man the insignia that had marked Derek as Captain of the Red Guard.

"Wolf-like creatures, you say?"

"Aye," said Jared. "Great big white wolves, with red eyes and silver teeth."

"Ah, you are not the first of our brothers to fall to these monsters," the Captain rumbled. "We've been getting reports of them running through the countryside since Midwinter."

"Caught us by surprise," Jared said. "We lost so many men. We have come to rest, and possibly rebuild our numbers."

"Come in," said the Captain tiredly, "but don't be surprised if everything is not what you thought it would be."

Roran frowned at that, but followed the Red Guard into Dras Leona anyway. Trumpet, pulled along at his side, stamped and tossed his head.

"I feel you," Roran muttered, passing under the shadow of the gates. He _hated _it here. It made his skin crawl.

Dras Leona's Captain led the Red Guard through the dense, dirty streets, Jared at his side. The man looked back at Roran once, and the General nodded his head.

_Keep going, _he tried to tell Jared. _Keep acting like a leader. They can't turn us away. The Varden's coming. _

Roran gradually worked his way through his men, getting nearer and nearer to the Captain. He relied on his cloak and Red Guard armor to hide him, and focused on the back of the Captain's head. He was speaking to Jared in a low voice.

"The Varden is on the move," the Captain was saying quietly. "They are less than two days away, and coming ever closer. Your arrival is most welcome, brother."

Jared dipped his head. "We have heard rumors, but I wasn't sure if they were true. Marching in wintertime! Don't these _barbarians _know the rules of war?"

The Captain snorted. "Of course not. They're no better than our slaves, low, crass, ignorant scum. All they want is death and destruction. Well, the Varden stops here! They will not break into _this _city. Helgrind will protect us all."

Roran rolled his eyes. A lunatic, wonderful. He knew that Marcus Tabor, the governor of the city, was insane, but the Captain of the Guard as well?

_It must be in the water, _he thought, and Trumpet nosed his shoulder. From the tall, narrow houses and the dirty alleyways, people watched the Red Guard tramp through the city. Did they know what was coming? Did they know that the Varden was on their way, armed to the teeth, ready to raze and burn the city to the ground, if they had to?

Roran wondered how many of Dras Leona's people had fled already, and how many of them had chosen to stay, either out of fear of the cold or of the Empire. How many of them wanted to go, but couldn't? And how many would die in the coming storm?

The Varden wouldn't kill civilians. Roran knew this. It was in the fundamental codes of the Varden itself: _they would not murder unarmed peoples. _The punishment for murdering a non-soldier was death. But if that non-soldier was armed and tried to fight anyway, even if they were only fighting out of fear…

Roran shook that thought away. As long as the people of Dras Leona stayed out of the Varden's way, they would not be harmed.

"They're starving," Jensen murmured, appearing at Roran's elbow. "Look at them. They're so thin."

And sure enough, just about every person the general saw on the street was painfully skinny, holding their distended stomachs and watching the marching soldiers with open hunger.

Famine in the wintertime was common enough. Roran had had more than his fair share of lean winters—he knew that ache. But this, _this _was months of little food. They were in the poorer quarter, but still, starvation like this shouldn't happen, especially in a city like this, one of the trading hubs of the Empire.

_But who is left to trade with them? _Roran wondered, almost against his will. _We've taked Gil'ead, Teirm, Feinster, Belatona. Who is left to trade food with Dras Leona? _

It had to be deeper than that, though. They had only had Teirm and Belatona for a few scant months, since right before winter. Dras Leona should have stockpiled its crops before then, should have saved some of its food. So where was it?

"Excuse me," Roran said, stepping out of the line of men. Jensen hissed, but Roran ignored him, and the healer was swept along. Roran stopped in front of a tired, thin young woman. Her eyes were bright, despite her skinny face, and she wore a slave's mark. "Can you help me? I'm looking for my mother, she came here to escape the Varden in the south."

The woman curled her lip, disdainful. Roran blinked. "What's happened here?" he said. "We were told Dras Leona was a safe place, that there would be food and shelter here. But you're all starving."

"Good eye," the young woman said dryly. "Yes, we're starving. Don't know who the hell told you Dras Leona was _safe. _We haven't been safe since Shadeslayer drew the demons out of Helgrind."

_Ra'zac, _Roran thought. "Demons?"

The woman snorted, waved her hand dismissively. "They called them _gods,_" she spat, "but I knew better. The things that lived in the mountains, that the priests worshipped and sacrificed to, that all the weak little people in this city _praised _and called holy."

"I've heard of them," Roran said, remembering those beady eyes and the sharp, sharp beaks. "They're gone?"

"Thank the gods. Shadeslayer and his dragon slew them, and the city's been reeling ever since." She laughed, harsh and bitter. "They took our food away, you know. The poorer ones have never looked to Helgrind for answers—we know better. So the rich ones called us unholy and took all the stored grains as punishment, and the Moon Quarter has been starving ever since."

"Moon Quarter?" The Red Guard was getting farther and farther away, but Roran didn't care. He wanted to know _everything _about this city, and who better to ask than this young slave-woman, who was so bitter, so angry?

"The poor district." She waved her hand again. "City's cut up into Quarters, didn't you know? Moon Quarter, that's here, for the poor, Slave Quarter for the slaves, Sun Quarter for the well-off, and Star Quarter for all the nobles and their ilk, and the priests, too. Gotta keep us all separate, you know."

Roran nodded, thinking that over. He bowed to the young woman, earning a laugh.

"You're a strange one, for a soldier," she said. "Hope you don't die, when the Varden comes."

"The Varden won't take the city," Roran said dutifully, like an Imperial soldier was supposed to.

She laughed again, a quick flash of teeth. "You think that now. Watch your back, soldier-boy! If you're still alive at the end, come looking for Merida in the Slave Quarter! I'll keep my eyes open for you!"

She faded into the alleys, and was gone.

Roran shook his head, noticing that the remaining people were giving him strange looks now, dark, doubtful glances.

"Go about your business," he said harshly, roughening his voice and mounting Trumpet.

The people watched him as he rode away, and he felt the weight of their stares like knives against his neck.

Trumpet, glad for the chance to run, caught up with the Red Guard easily and Roran slipped in among them, hiding between a few wagons and red cloaks.

Solembum, who was riding as a cat in one of the wagons, blinked his strange, pale-gray eyes. (_I could've sworn those were green two days ago,_ Roran thought.)

_Gathering information, are we? _the werecat said.

Roran shrugged. _Anything to help Nasuada take over. I figure if we can learn enough while we're here, we can take over the city with as little bloodshed as possible. _

The werecat nodded. _I will go to her, as soon as you're ready to send me, _he said. _I can feel them getting closer. _

_The Captain of the Guard thinks they'll be here in just under two days. _

Solembum sneered, baring all of his snowy teeth. _Dras Leona doesn't even have that long, _he said. _They'll be here by sunset tomorrow. _

_The city is split into quarters, _Roran said, the heavy, excited battle-feeling stirring in his chest. _The Slave Quarter and the poorer quarter probably won't fight—they're starving. The rich took away their food to please the gods, or something. _

Solembum's eyes flashed. _Very well, _he said. _I shall gather information of my own when the sun sets. I have a sister here, and she has no love for slavers and priests. _

Roran curled his hand around his hammer, hidden beneath his long, heavy cloak. Wind picked up, rushing through the city, and he shivered. _Thank you, _he said.

The werecat laughed softly. _Why did you come here, Stronghammer? You didn't know the Varden was moving here until I told you. _

The bearded general swallowed hard, breaking eye contact with the cat. _I, _he said, and stopped. Why had he come? Belatona had been closer and a more logical destination for himself and the Red Guard. But he had gone to Dras Leona without pause, barely even thinking about it as he convinced the men.

_I felt that Katrina was here, _he said finally, twisting the ring on his finger. She wasn't wearing hers. He could tell: the itch in his mind was gone.

_Your wife? And how did you come to that idea?_

He shrugged, meeting Solembum's bright, pale eyes again. _I don't know, _he said honestly. _I just thought about her, and my mind settled here. She's here, somewhere, or close by, I can _feel _it. _

Solembum snorted, shaking his fur.

Roran glared. _You're laughing at me, _he said.

_Not at all. When you have lived as much as I have, you learn to never underestimate the power of love. If you felt your wife here, then here she is, _the werecat said, and he sounded sincere. _Now go. The Captain will leave you alone soon, you can speak to your people again then. Do not be afraid that someone here will recognize you and turn you in. This city is rotting. A purging fire is welcome here. _

_What do you mean? _Roran asked, leaning forward with a frown.

Solembum stretched to his full cat-height, eyes so bright it almost hurt to look at him. _You were a farmer, once, _he said. _You know the werecat stories, and what my kind can do. So know now that what I say is not to be taken lightly, and you must carry these words in your heart always, and never forget them. Do you understand?_

_Yes, _Roran said, after a split second of hesitation.

The cat's eyes flashed. _Good, _he rumbled. _One day soon, the time will come for you to choose between a life of the earth and a life of the stone. Both lives will bring you happiness, but only one can be your path. Choose wisely. Remember that the past is the past, and stories are well and good, but you cannot relive them. _

_What?_

_You cannot relive the past, _the werecat snarled. _Try and try as it might, the diamond cannot return to the coal. The past is dead. Gone. Do not try and hold onto it, for this will lead to your ruin. The path of kings depends on moving forward. _

_I don't understand, _Roran tried, but Solembum kept speaking.

_I will give you three names: Baldr, Tyr, and Zisa. _

The words shuddered in Roran, trembling in his thoughts and working their way there, holding tight.

Solembum's eyes glowed.

_Remember these names, and well, for they are from the language of my people. You cannot escape them. They are tied to you forever. _

And then Solembum stood, balanced on the edge of the cart for a brief moment, and hurled himself off the edge, disappearing into the streets.

_Wait! _Roran called after him, but it was too late. The werecat was gone, leaving his warning and words ringing in Roran's ears.

_What the hell was that, _Roran thought, shaking his head.

Trumpet nickered, nosing him affectionately.

"I wish you could talk," Roran told the warhorse quietly, trying to ignore the sheer _discomfort _Solembum had caused. "I bet you wouldn't spout nonsense, would you?"

The horse stamped his feet, and Roran smiled despite himself.

They were in nicer streets now, probably the Sun Quarter. There were no starving people pressed in on all sides and the slaves were better dressed, though the sight of them still made Roran so very angry.

"There you are," Jensen said, frowning. "Where did you wander off too?"

"Talking to some of the civilians," a helpful soldier said, smiling at Roran.

Jensen raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

"When can we stop?" Roran asked.

"Captain Tabor said soon."

"_Captain _Tabor?"

"Aye, Marcus Tabor's younger brother. He runs the Guard here, apparently."

"Well that explains the demon-worship," Roran muttered, and the healer cracked a grin.

"Lighten up, General," he said. "Your reinforcements will be here tomorrow, and then it will all be over."

_And I can find Katrina, _Roran thought, nodding along with the healer. He sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't focus, couldn't think straight.

"Tell Jared I will be back shortly," he said. "I have to look around some more."

Jensen frowned. "I don't think that's a good idea, Roran. You'll be alone in the city. What about your men?"

Roran blinked, guilty. Was he really so affected by Solembum's words that he couldn't think clearly? He _had _to be focused, had to be watching out for his men. They were going to attack Dras Leona soon. They needed him to plan.

"You're right," he said slowly, and hated himself for it. "No, I'll stay. Once we're safe we can plan, and then take down the city."

"Exactly," Jensen said approvingly. "Come on, then."

Roran mounted Trumpet again, and together they went towards the front of the marching line, all the way to the edge of the Sun Quarter where a large building stood empty, apparently for their use.

"These are the Green Guard's barracks, whenever they're through here," Captain Tabor said. "It'll have to do, for now. Sleep tonight. Tomorrow, report to the wall. We can use your archers up there, and then the rest of you in the Star Quarter, guarding the inner city."

_The inner city! _Roran thought, delighted. Tabor had _no idea _that he was putting his enemies in the heart of his city, where they could take Tabor and the other leaders easily. He could barely believe his luck. Maybe they could solve this without much bloodshed.

"And rest easy," Tabor said, loud enough that all of the gathered soldiers could hear. "Tomorrow, His Majesty is sending reinforcements. A regiment of Painless Ones and his very own dragon!"

"Shruikan?" Jared said, and Roran was proud of how well he kept the _terror _out of his voice. "Shruikan is coming here?"

Captain Tabor laughed, hard and bright. "No, no," he chuckled. "You haven't heard? He has himself a new warrior dragon now."

"Does he? He hatched another egg?"

Tabor's grin was downright _vicious. _

"No," he said, "but he turned a dragon to his side. You might know of her, I think. They call her Saphira."

* * *

**Sorry if this caused more questions than it answered! Have a great day, review if you're able!**

**~WSS**


	48. Chapter Forty Seven: Traveler

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.**

* * *

"What remains to him? Tall Time wonders. What thoughts and smells, what names? Or are there only sensations and a clutter of incompatible words?" –Barbara Gowdy, _The White Bone_

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Chapter Forty-seven: Traveler

* * *

The river water _burned. _Traveler tried to scream out, to thrash and claw his way to the surface, but the water pushed down and it was too much, too much, he couldn't _breathe_—

_He was dying and fighting and dying and there was a pain in his chest, a horrible, burning, blistering lightning-crackle, and the river flooded his lungs and he couldn't breathe to summon a healing spell_—

Traveler fought, panicking, flailing in the water. It was cold, it was colder than cold, it was so cold that it was hot and it seared him to the bone. He couldn't fight it. He just wasn't _strong _enough. The water was cold and close, and the current faster than he would have thought.

Traveler just couldn't fight it.

So he let it sweep him along, choking, flailing with a memory burned against his eyelids.

He thought he heard his friends screaming, trying to drag him from the fast silver river, but their fingers missed him, pulled up only shimmering water in return.

_The river takes, _Traveler remembered Guide saying. _The river washes away memories. It _takes—

And as he struggled, breathing in coldcold water, Traveler felt his experiences fade away. He lost flying first, and then his memories of fire. Next the river took Courage's laughter, and the memory of a long tree-bridge, and then went his experiences with a giant fish and a bloody battlefield, and then Guide's face slipped through Traveler's fingers, leaving only the cold, always the cold, and he saw a pair of bright, gleaming ice-colored eyes flashing in the depths—

His flask, always tucked against his heart, ever since he started this long, long journey, was pulled free by the current, and swept away.

Suddenly, Traveler—though he didn't know that name, not right now, because the river had stolen it again, just like his last name—grew _angry. _That was _his _flask, and he didn't know who gave it to him or what it was, or why it was so important, but he _knew _it was, he _knew it. _

With a wordless, breathless howl, Traveler lunged across the river after it. He propelled himself with the deepest magic—though, of course, he'd lost that too—and the water parted for him, shoved aside by sheer, raw fury.

"_NO!" _he howled, reaching for the glittered flask, and heat swelled in his chest like a lightning bolt straight to the heart—

_A king on a black dragon riding high above the storm, holding a Heart in one hand and living lightning in another—_

_A young man on a red dragon, leaping, balancing on a wide dark back, dueling the king, sparks and blood flying—_

_A fierce-eyed man on a not-dragon, lashing and slashing with narrow teeth and claws and needle-sharp magic, cracking bones, and the man fighting the king was going to _die—

Rage, _and She was roaring and fire was welling in his blood, a pair of coal-lined eyes flashing over his own, flexing burning claws—_

The man in the river reached, desperately clawing apart the silvery waters, heat rolling from his skin and blasting out the cold, and the river seemed to recoil from him, drawing up and away into great, shimmering walls of water—

Above he saw strange creatures, things he knew to be dragons dueling women with bird's bodies—or birds with women's heads, he didn't know—and silver blood streamed and steamed into the writhing river.

The flask was close. It was so close, just out of his reach—

The man in the river shouted a word that made the very air freeze, crack open, and then blaze with sudden, terrible light. The ground blew up and water flashed to steam. Deep, jagged wounds appeared in the space between worlds—one of gray cold, the other of warm, splendid color—and for a second the abyss yawned in front of the man in the river, blacker than emptiness and bleeding.

He blinked, fought on, and bright light shuddered, holding back the suddenly raging river just long enough for his fist to close over the flask—

And then everything came crashing down. Water slammed into him, ripping him farther down and tearing away that bright power that had held it back, extinguishing it back into grayness once more. The abyss faded away. The gaps, though not completely healed, faded back into tiny little fractures.

And the man was swept away.

He didn't care, this time. It was as if he was wrapped in fire. The coldness of the river couldn't touch him. He had the flask clenched tight in his hands, and not even Death himself could rip it from him.

That pair of pale, bright eyes flashed once, a challenge, and a voice whispered _We'll see, little traveler, _and then they were gone.

A strong, gentle hand caught the back of the man's soaked tunic, and hauled him to the shore.

He went willingly, coughing, and though he was soaking he was terribly thirst, _so _thirsy, and he wanted to drink from the water—

"Traveler," said a sweet, kind voice, "Traveler, look at me."

He couldn't disobey. He did, and his eyes watered.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen smiled kindly at him, cupping his face with her hand. "Traveler," she said. "Are you alright?"

He could only nod, staring at her, fascinated. He felt like he _knew _her from somewhere, knew her face, her hands. Her smile gentled and turned, he thought, a little sad.

"Thirsty," he croaked. His throat felt like it was coated in sand and he'd _die _if he didn't drink, and the river was right there, and even though he _knew _it would kill him he needed to drink.

"No," the woman—the name _Sacrifice _sprang unbidden into the man's tired, thirsty mind—said. "You mustn't."

"I'm so thirsty," he—was his name Traveler?—whispered. He pulled away from her, towards the river. "Please."

There were others now, dropping from the sky. The bodies of the bird-women littered the rivershore. Traveler knew their faces, but he was too tired to care, and so _thirsty, _why was he so thirsty?

"Drink this," Sacrifice said, and tapped the flask clutched in his fist.

"No," he hissed, instinctively curling it closer. She would try and take it too, like the water, like that thing with bright dead eyes, and he couldn't let her, he _needed it_—

"Traveler," said another man, an elf with dark hair and strong, kingly features. "Drink."

"Drink," added another, hefting a battle-axe over his shoulder. He looked strange with that axe. Traveler thought he ought to have a hammer instead.

"Drink," whispered another elf—at least Traveler thought he was an elf, he couldn't be sure. He didn't think elves had such rich, beautiful fur.

"Drink," said a third elf, and he twirled a flower between his fingers, green eyes warm and gentle.

"Drink," said a man who smelled of fire. His eyes, mismatched, gleamed brightly.

"Drink," said a man with ginger hair, and his eyes were blue, searing, and a sapphire dragoness settled at his shoulder.

Traveler looked at all these people, people who he trusted, he thought, who had _helped _him, maybe? And then he looked down at the flask.

_It's full, _he realized with a jolt. _It's full now. _

Thirst burned in the back of his throat, lightning dancing in his chest. He swallowed hard. "Are you sure?" he rasped.

The woman, her eyes soft and brown and kind, smiled. "Drink," she said. Her hands were warm on his face. "Drink, and remember."

Traveler took a deep, unsteady breath, thought about those pale eyes in the water and the abyss yawning before him. He uncapped the flask, licked chapped, broken lips, and drank the contents of the flask in a single gulp.

It didn't taste like water.

It tasted like blood, and he nearly spit it out. His throat burned, blistering, and it _hurt, _oh it hurt—

And then—

_The King riding high on his black dragon, wielding an Eldunarí in one hand and a lightning bolt in the other, the battlefield spread below him. _

_Tariku and his monstress, lashing at him and Saphira, tearing at them, and they needed to _help, _Murtagh was fighting the King alone—_

_And then Murtagh fell, he fell and fell and Thorn screamed, and Galbatorix hurled his lightning—_

"NO!" _he screamed, and he grabbed at the Obliterator, letting its heat wash over him, and Tariku fell to the side, stunned by a god's fire, and he flew on flaming wings, and _pulled _at the lightning inside Murtagh, dragging it from his heart and hurling it into empty space—_

_Galbatorix howled, in fear, or perhaps in triumph, and he saw the lightning too late, much too late, and it struck him right in the chest—_

_And the fire left him then, the Obliterator howling, screaming, torn in two by the force of the blow, and he fell—_

No, _Saphira wailed, and she reached for him but he couldn't speak to her, couldn't reach her because he was fading fast, and he thought, maybe, that this was dying. _

_Lightning chased his heart and the King laughed and laughed, even as the Heart was broken and light ribboned across the sky—_

_He hit the water hard enough to break his back but he wasn't dead, not yet, and the water rushed into his mouth and eyes and the lightning rattled his bones, and then—!_

Eragon Shadeslayer opened his eyes.

He fell. He couldn't stand under the weight of it, the memories, and so he fell on the riverbank into Sacrifice's arms.

He shook. He _remembered. _Saphira, Murtagh, the Varden, Arya, _Arya, _all of it, every little detail of his life that he had lost the moment he died and was washed clean by the river.

"Who are you?" Sacrifice whispered, and her voice sounded achingly familiar.

The man once known as Traveler swallowed, got his breathing back under control, and looked up. "I am Eragon Shadeslayer," he said, unsteady at first, but picking up strength. "Brother of Murtagh, Rider of Saphira, and son of Selena and Brom."

Selena—_Sacrifice—_smiled at him, and her cheeks were wet with tears. "My boy," she whispered. "My beautiful, beautiful boy."

She helped him stand, supporting his shaky weight, and Eragon couldn't take his eyes off her. "Mother," he breathed. "_Mother._" This was the woman he'd never known, who had taken him and hidden him and left him with his uncle. Who had loved him, he now knew, loved him so much she went back to _die _so that he would be _safe—_

"I suppose we're just talking cows," said Sight dryly, fixing Eragon with his piercing, mismatched eyes. "He's definitely _your _son, Red."

"Morzan," Eragon said. _Morzan _stood in front of him and he smelled like fire.

"Observant, too."

"Leave off," Brom grunted, pushing his shaggy hair—gingery, not turned white like Eragon had known—out of his eyes. He smiled at his son. "Eragon."

"Father," he choked. He _couldn't—_

He looked around at all these people, these ones who had guided him and helped him and kept him from _dying _here forever, who had stood by him all this time, and tears came to his eyes.

There was Hrothgar, hefting his axe. The dwarf king grinned, still blood-splattered with the Land of Blood.

There was Blodgharm—Eragon bowed his head, because he had tried to protect the elf, long ago, and had failed—wearing his raven-dark fur, and he didn't look like a fish right now, but Eragon knew that he could be one, if he chose.

There was Faolin—Arya's old lover—who had the brightest green eyes Eragon could remember seeing and a Black Morning Glory in his fingers.

There was Evandar, the old elf King, Arya's father and Eragon's Guide, who bowed to the younger deeply, smiling.

There was Morzan with his strange eyes, leaning on one leg, a lopsided, Murtagh-smile on his face.

War, Friend, Courage, Guide, and Sight. His companions. His _teachers, _people he'd barely known in life but who had risked everything to aid him.

And then there was Brom and Selena, his _parents, _and Eragon blindly held out his arms.

They enveloped him, and they were warm and clean and _good. _

He shook.

"I missed you," he said, muffled into Brom's shoulder. "I missed you _so much, _both of you."

"We know, son," said Selena. She touched his face again like she couldn't help it. "We've missed you too. We've tried to watch you, this whole time. We've tried to dream ourselves into you, so you know that we love you."

Eragon choked again, nearly overcome. He didn't want to leave their embrace, but they were already pulling away.

"Don't go," he gasped. "Please, don' go. I want—"

_To know you, to be with you, to talk to you_—

"My beautiful boy," Selena whispered, drawing back. Brom made a sound, harsh and ragged, and sagged back on his Saphira.

_Saphira. _The pain in Eragon's heart was like another bolt of lightning.

"You can't stay here," Selena said. She pulled Brom farther back and Eragon took an uncertain, wanting step forward, but faltered. She shook her head. "You have to go now," she said. "I'm sorry, Eragon. I love you, but you must go."

"_I don't want to,_" Eragon whispered, ragged. He felt shattered inside, so tired, so very tired. "I just want—"

"I know," said Selena. "I want it too, but you _can't. _You have to go back. Your friends are waiting for you."

_My friends. _Another stab of pain, harsh, blinding. Arya, the woman he loved. Murtagh, who he'd _died _for. Saphira, his Saphira, oh she must be _hurting_—

"Please," he said.

"My son," Selena said. She took his face in both hands, pulling him close. "You've been so brave. So strong. I know it hurts. I know. But you _must _go back. Do you understand? You must."

Eragon looked around at all of them, these _people _who had never left him alone to fade into nothingness.

Hrothgar, who adopted him. Faolin, who loved Arya first. Blodgharm, who died because Eragon wasn't strong enough, fast enough. Evandar the Elf King, who died long before Eragon was even _born, _who had been Guide this entire time, always kind, always steady. Morzan. Morzan who was Murtagh's father, who was _evil, _but this man here wasn't evil, he was just _hot, _blazing with passion.

Brom. Selena.

He choked back another plea.

They had done this for him, gotten him so far. And somehow, deep down, Eragon knew that they would suffer dearly for it.

Death didn't let his own go easily, after all. He'd proven that so far, with the river and the bird-women and the cold.

There was still a fight to be had, and he was terrified that they would just _disappear _into nothingness and he'd never see them again.

Selena seemed to know what he was thinking. She smiled and pulled away again. She smelled like roses. "Do you know why I named you Eragon?"

He shook his head. He didn't want her to leave him. It was selfish, he knew, but he'd never known her and he _wanted. _

"I named you Eragon because it is the seventh word of power, just after _dream _and just before _hope. _It means _sacrifice, _you know. It has the power to save lives, and deeper power. Two have been named before you—the first was the first Dragon Rider, who gave up his people and his dreams for peace. And the second was a young Dragon Rider who laid down his life in Uru'baen to a madman named Galbatorix, who gave his dragon Shruikan so that he could protect the other young riders in the city."

Eragon swallowed, bowing his head.

Selena smiled again, sadly, lovingly. "You are the third," she whispered. "You died to protect your brother, and there is no nobler death than that. And now you must give up _this _to go back. They need more than we do, Eragon."

"Will I see you again?" he gasped.

"Eragon," said Brom, his _father, _and Eragon snapped to his face. "We'll wait for you. In the Land of the Sun, we'll wait for you. We love you. We'll always wait."

"One day, I'll talk to you," Eragon said fiercely. He stood straighter, stiffly, steeling himself. _Courage _and _will _began to pool in his gut, and he looked out at the cold, gray river.

An enormous rock sat in the center, bending the water around it.

"One day, we'll talk for hours," said Brom, smiling. He looked _proud. _"But not for a thousand years, do you understand? I don't want to see you back here for _centuries, _until you are ready to come."

Eragon swallowed hard. Pain flared inside him again, but he nodded. He understood. He turned to the others, gratitude welling up. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "All of you, thank you so much. You didn't have to—Didn't have to do this for me."

Evandar inclined his head. "You will do much good for the world, young Eragon. For my daughter, also. May the stars light your path."

Eragon bowed.

"Take care of her, will you?" said Faolin. "And tell her thank you, for naming her dragon after me. Tell her I'm happy here."

"I will," he promised.

"Tell Orik not all grudges need be fulfilled," Hrothgar rumbled. "He thinks too much on the past—he must face the future."

"I don't blame you," said Blodgharm. His eyes flashed, and Eragon saw the motion of a circular fish in their depths. "I wasn't in any pain. It was quick."

"Thank you," Eragon whispered.

Morzan grunted, striding forward with his hand outstretched.

His gedway ignasia shimmered, and Eragon looked at his own. It was dull by comparison.

"Give me your hand, little fool," said the first Forsworn, and Eragon eyed him warily. "Give me your hand!"

"Why?"

"Another question! Because your Rider-bond is broken, that's why, and you have nothing to offer Death to repair it. So I will repair it for you. Give me your hand."

Eragon hesitated still. A Forsworn—_the _Forsworn, and the father Murtagh had so hated—wanted to repair his Rider-bond?

"I shall not hurt you," said Morzan, and his face lost some of its fire. "My dragon's name was torn from her, and we lived in madness. A broken bond is a fate worse than death. _Take it, _and be whole."

"Why are you giving this to me?" Eragon said. "I'm your enemy's son."

"Brom and I weren't always enemies, you know," Morzan whispered. The fire flared in him again. "And I am tired. I am ready, I think, and this will take me where I need to go."

Eragon eyed his hand, the shining dragon-mark.

"What was her name?" he asked.

Morzan huffed an irritated breath, and lunged before the younger Rider could pull away, grasping his hand—

And light flared, surging through Eragon, electric like he'd touched the newborn Saphira all over again—

Morzan pulled his hand away, and Eragon's skin shivered. The older Rider was fading, it seemed, dimming from the inside. His skin grew translucent, and light bled out of him. "Her name," said Morzan, and the wildest joy came over his face, "was Eliora."

And then he was gone.

Eragon gasped, feeling that _power _well up inside him, and he knew that the moment he drew breath again, he'd be _whole. _

He turned to his parents, shaking. "I will see you again," he said.

They nodded. Brom was crying. Selena wore a dragoness's expression, fierce, fearless.

"And my friends are waiting for me?"

"They're calling to you now," she said.

Eragon squared his shoulders. His mouth tasted like blood and roses, and _memory _thrummed, alive like lightning in his veins. "Then let's go."

"That's my son," Selena said, and she laughed. The sound hurt him, but he would hear it again. He swore to himself, on that shore, that he would hear his mother laugh again.

She took his hand and led him into the water, and like before it wasn't cold, or if it was he couldn't feel it.

She led him to the great rock, and Eragon remembered Solembum, and _speak your name to open the Vault of Souls. _

"They're just on the other side," said Selena, and from the sky came a thousand of Death's Women, screeching, and the river blew up in writhing walls of faces and ice cracked on the surface of the rock.

Death was angry.

All around him, Eragon's guides drew their weapons, ready against the water and the women and the cold.

"We're with you," said Evandar, King of the Elves. "Go, young Shadeslayer. Live again."

Eragon nodded. "Thank you," he said.

He hugged his father, kissed his mother's cheek. Then he turned, facing the Rock of Kuthain—because that's what it was, he _knew it_—and took a deep, shuddering breath.

_Speak your name to open the Vault of Souls. _

Death was on the other side. Angry Death, violent Death, Death who would fight to keep him.

Eragon hoped that his friends knew how to persuade Death to let him go.

"I am _Eragon,_" he said strongly, clearly. There was no doubt now. "_He Who Holds the Sacrificial Fire._"

And the Rock of Kuthain split open.

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**If you have any questions, just ask! We are getting serious here!**

**~WSS**


	49. Chapter Forty Eight: Dras Leona

**Here, have a three POV chapter before I rush off to work! I'll come back later with a better Author's Note, because there are _things _we must address!**

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own. (Also, sincere apologies if this chapter feels slightly rushed. I had _such a hard time _writing it. It's really long, though.)**

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"If we don't end war, war will end us." –H.G. Wells

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Chapter Forty-eight: The Battle of Dras Leona

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Lady Nasuada crouched in the snow in the shadow of Helgrind, watching Dras Leona through narrowed eyes.

Darkness pressed down on all of them, thick and cold. Dawn was approaching, but not nearly fast enough—the Empire's torches burned along the city walls, waiting.

They knew the Varden was there.

But they were afraid, Nasuada knew. They hadn't had enough time to draw in proper reinforcements—only the assorted small patrols within a few days' march had been called in and arrived.

Dras Leona was under-defended and, best of all, Roran was in there.

_With a loyal regiment of _Imperial soldiers, _of all things, _she thought, shaking her head. She was amazed. Only Roran would be brave enough—or perhaps stupid enough—to run with a Guard, but he was certainly running with these men. He trusted them, and they him.

Solembum had arrived just before nightfall, carrying news of Roran and the city's weaknesses. He had said that Roran's Red Guard trusted the Varden completely, that they were ready and willing to take down Dras Leona and fight against the Empire.

To think that _Roran _convinced them to do this was simply amazing. What had he said to them, these soldiers of the Red Guard, to turn them to his side? They had abandoned their post down south without so much as a fuss, it seemed.

That blind, complete loyalty _amazed _Nasuada. She couldn't believe it, almost. She was used to people fighting for money, or for revenge, or for food and a place to stay. She was used to arguments and attempts to curry favor, vicious betrayals and power-grubbing.

She wasn't used to people who fought just because their commander _asked. _

_That family, _she thought, shaking her head. Snow and frost cracked in her hair and she sighed, leaning against Battle-storm.

The Varden was ready. With Roran inside the city—though she hadn't told anyone that _specifically, _just that they were not to kill any Imperial whose armor had a red band around the arm—and, according to Solembum, a slave rebellion brewing, Dras Leona was weakened and it didn't even know it.

The plan, formed in the frigid early morning hours with Solembum acting as a mental relay between Nasuada and Roran, ran something like this:

Nasuada and the host of the Varden would attack from Helgrind's shadow, the south. The host of elves—still a few leagues out, according to the liasons—would attack from the northwest later, while all the city's forces would be gathered at the south. Roran's people would be split. Half, namely the archers and pikesmen, would be on the wall, pretending to fight for the Empire. When Nasuada gave the signal, they would turn on their _brothers _and fight them down. If the Varden wasn't in the wall at the time, the Red Guard would let them in.

The other half, Roran included, would be tearing through the city, aiming for Marcus Tabor. Roran had sent Solembum with a basic layout of the city, and Tabor was to be in the heart of it—the Star Quarter—probably hiding in the temple while his city burned.

Whoever got to him first, be it Nasuada, the elves, or Roran, would take him.

Simple.

Except, of course, for the slaves. Nasuada knew that there was a rebellion stirring, led by a group of women and possibly one scarred man—Solembum wasn't sure—in the depths of Dras Leona. These people were organized, highly motivated, and _furious. _They wouldn't stop until their enemies burned.

Nasuada could respect that. She just hoped that the slaves had enough sense to _stay away _from the trained Varden fighters. Her people didn't go out of their way to fight civilians, but if some loon charged them with a rock or a sword, they would fight, and probably kill.

The last thing she needed was to sit in a city where a sizable chunk of the population wanted to kill her.

And then there was Saphira.

She had heard the whispered rumors, and they made her blood run cold.

Saphira, enemy of the Varden. It just didn't sound _right _to Nasuada. She knew Saphira. She had fought with the dragoness, and laughed with her, and taken shelter under her wings once in a storm. Saphira was not the Varden's enemy. She was their greatest ally, the rallying point to which thousands of people all across Alagaesia had come.

And now, she was broken.

Nasuada couldn't blame her, exactly. It must have been _horrible, _watching and feeling Eragon die. The stories say that a Rider's death was enough to _kill _the dragon, and any that survived was irreparably damaged. And Galbatorix was a master at twisting creatures to his will. Of course he knew how to use Saphira's pain and brokenness to turn her to him. _Of course _he knew how, and he'd had her for months now. Plenty of time to whisper in her ear, to twist things, to break her and then remake her.

But still, the sudden turn had caught them all by surprise. The Rider clan had been watching her and reporting back to Nasuada, and it was Sunna, the little yellow dragonnes, who told the Lady of Saphira's change.

_She was asleep, _Sunna had said, clearly distressed. _She was asleep, not moving, and Galbatorix visited her every day. And then she got up, and he took away the cage, and he told her to—_

_What did he tell her to do, _Nasuada had asked, evenly despite the sudden, overwhelming terror in her heart.

_He told her to raze a village, and she did. He _rode on her back, _Nasuada, he, he_—And Sunna had cut off, apparently unable to go on.

Saphira. Enemy of the Varden.

The elves were still in mourning. Nasuada had told them and no one else—she couldn't do that to her people, not on the eve of battle.

They'd find out soon enough anyway. According to sources in Uru'baen and Dras Leona, Saphira was due to arrive in a few hours, and destroy the Varden where they stood.

But it wouldn't be that easy, not this time, not even for Saphira.

For one, she wasn't riding with Galbatorix. The man couldn't leave his city and he was no doubt scouring the east frantically for any sign of Dragon Riders. Nasuada's lie had reached him—he and his believed it.

For two, the Varden had fought dragons before, and survived. Even Saphira wouldn't take them. The men had loved her, but wouldn't hesitate. They valued their own lives over the memory of hers.

For three, they had a host of elves. The dragon-elf war had taught the elves how to kill their flying counterparts, and that knowledge had not been lost.

And finally, they had their own dragons now. Konungr, Deloi, and Sunna were not nearly as trained and experienced as Saphira, yes. They weren't as ferocious in their fighting, and they still thought of her as leader-of-the-pack, but they would _fight, _if only to capture her and help heal her.

No, Saphira wouldn't destroy them. Nasuada was sure of it.

She breathed again, breath clouding. Beside her, Angela smiled slightly, looking up at Helgrind.

"It's strange, don't you think?"

"What's strange?" Nasuada asked.

"Worshipping demons in a mountain, of course."

Nasuada looked up at the looming beast, blinked, and looked back at Angela. "My people have worshipped mountains for thousands of years."

The witch laughed. "_Your _worship makes sense. You burn incense, offer up dried fruits and herbs. You celebrate with wine on Midsummer's eve, and with fire on Midwinter's. You celebrate with _life. _With joy. That is how it should be. But _these _people? They celebrate with blood. Death. They worshipped the Ra'zac, you know, not Helgrind itself."

"Strange," Nasuada muttered.

Angela sighed. "You should loosen up," she said. "Breathe, live a little. Today is not the end of the Varden. Today is our victory, and we will show the gods of Helgrind what power is!"

Nasuada looked at the witch sidelong, and couldn't stop a smile from twitching over her face. "Aye," she said. "I suppose you're right."

Dawn was breaking faster now, spreading thin, pale light over the city. Snow, muddy and trampled, paved the way to the gates. Torches burned, and a line of glittering soldiers waited, swords drawn and at the ready.

Nasuada wondered, abstractly, how many of them were praying.

She mounted Battle-storm, signaling others to ready themselves. With Angela at her side, Nasuada worked her way through her people, stopping nearly the front so all could see her.

Battle-storm kicked, signaling his impatience. The horse smelled war.

Nasuada breathed, and raised her voice. "My brothers and sisters!" she cried. "You have fought long and hard to reach this place! You have braved the fires of the south and the north's winters! You have fought demons and dragons and hell itself, and you have lived! You have taken back your lands from the Black King's talons!"

The Varden roared, stamping its feet. The sound make the very snow shake.

"We have taken Feinster! We have taken Belatona! We have taken the cities to the north and the cities of the south, and what is left? A city of cowards!"

The Varden roared again. _Cowards! _was taken up, shouted from every throat.

"A city of thieves! A city of people content to let their poor starve, to let their children suffer as slaves! A city that worshipped the Ra'zac, those foul beasts who many of you saw kill and consume human flesh!"

"Down with Dras Leona!" someone howled. "Down with the city of hell!"

"My brothers, will we be stopped here?"

"No!"

"Will we let these cowards drive us out?"

"No!"

Nasuada turned, raising her sword high. It shone in the growing light, and up above, circling in the clouds, three bright dragons circled, roaring their challenge.

"_Charge!" _Nasuada bawled, urging Battle-storm forward, and the Varden rushed across the fields to meet the Empire, swords flashing like fangs in the dawn.

They had found Katrina a horse. She didn't know _where, _exactly, because it was a scrawny, mangy little thing, but still, a horse was a horse and it meant that she didn't have to waddle around after her companions. She could ride into it with the best of them.

Sel had tried to convince her otherwise. "You are _pregnant,_" she had hissed, rubbing her own stomach protectively. "Due in less than a month! And you want to go run around a _battlefield? _Think of your child!"

"I am," Katrina had said back, her eyes steely. "I cannot sit back and let others fight for it, when I myself can ensure that my child will have a better future."

"You could die, or lose the baby."

"If we are not free of the King, I will die anyway," Katrina said evenly. "This way, I know that I am doing all that I can."

So Merida had found her a horse.

Katrina missed Snowfire. She and Albriech had found the white stallion in Feinster, and the friendly horse had carried them through the snows easily. Their captor had taken him, when he and his band of slavers had found them. Katrina hoped the poor old horse was still alive. He'd been through much, and deserved a nice pasture.

This horse would have to do, though. Katrina petted its thin neck absently, listening to the sounds of battle high above her.

Down here in the tunnels, the battle was muted. What normally was a deafening howl of men and swords and dragon-roars was little more than a hum, punctuated by the occasional rumble of a collapsing building or a destroyed catapult tumbling down.

Merida, beside Katrina's horse, smiled thinly. "It's almost time," she said.

Katrina looked at her own group of rebels. The scarred man, whose name was Balor, and the sharp-faced woman, whose name Katrina still didn't know, had taken forces of their own and were waiting in other tunnels, ready to spring and take the Empire by surprise.

Katrina's group was right below the Star Quarter, where the priests and wealthy cowered. The Varden's forces couldn't be near it, not yet—Katrina doubted they were even inside the walls—but _they _could. They could get to Marcus Tabor.

So that was the plan. The three groups of slaves were to work their way to the temple, where Tabor and his were hiding, and they were to rip those people apart.

Simple.

Katrina shifted, rubbing her belly. Her child kicked. _Still alive in there,_ she thought. _Hang on, my little one. I'll protect you. _

If Ismira was alive, she would probably throw a fit, seeing her daughter, nearly nine months pregnant, riding off to battle. Then she would grab the nearest blunt weapon, and join in.

Katrina smiled at the memory of her mother. Ismira was like that, like _her, _all red hair and passion. Never content to sit on the wayside, to let the menfolk work it out. If she could help in any way, Ismira would.

And so too would Katrina, and any daughters she might have.

"What's got you so happy?" Merida asked, amused.

Katrina smiled. "Just thinking about my mother," she said. "And my child."

"If you have a girl, will you name her after your mother?"

"No," Katrina said instantly, thinking it over. She wouldn't—she wouldn't pass on her mother into her daughter. A baby was its own person, right? What was the point of naming a child after someone else? Every time she looked at her child she'd see her mother, not her daughter.

"Good," said Merida. She smiled, and it was tinged with pain. "I was pregnant once, you know?"

"Did they take your baby away?"

"No," the other woman murmured. "No, my daughter was stillborn."

"I am so sorry," Katrina said. Her child kicked under her hand, reassuring. "That's—that's horrible."

"Better, in the long run," said Merida, her smile turning bitter. "Who wants to raise a child into _this? _Into slavery and poverty and hunger?"

"Still," Katrina murmured, then stopped. It wasn't her place.

"I was going to name her Zisa," said Merida softly. "It's a word of power, did you know? Very important to my people."

"What does it mean?" Katrina asked.

Merida's smile sharpened, and Katrina could _swear _that her teeth were slightly pointed. "It means _blessed,_" she said. "It means _much blessed._"

"Blessed," Katrina murmured. She rubbed her belly thoughtfully.

Up above, a thunderous sound startled all of them—it sounded as if someone had thrown the entire wall down.

"What's happening?"

"I believe," said another rebel, near Katrina's knee, "that that's our signal."

Katrina nodded, steeling herself. "Everyone who has armor, suit up!" she barked. She gratefully accepted a heavy leather jerkin, feeling its padded, layered insides. It wouldn't stop a direct thrust, but most slashes and glancing blows would hit only layers of leather, not soft flesh. _You see, my little one? We'll be safe. _

She put on a helmet too, tossing her hair.

Merida grinned. "You look like a legend," she whispered, patting the horse. "Come on then, fearless leader. What are your orders?"

Katrina looked around at the desperate, fierce rebels. She felt _strange. _She was no warrior. That was Roran, wasn't it, the fearless, the strong. She was just Katrina.

But she was Ismira's daughter too. She was of Carvahall, and the people who fought the winter tooth and nail. She would not sit here and let someone else fight for _her _freedom.

Katrina took a deep, shuddering breath. "Let's go," she said, and spurred the scrawny horse forward, leading her small band of rebels.

The tunnels steepened and the sounds of battle grew louder as she led them, up and up to Dras Leona.

Merida, wearing a sharp-toothed smile, beamed at Katrina, and then threw the tunnel door open wide.

Dras Leona's Star Quarter was disturbingly still. All along the walls in the distance, the battle raged, and occasionally chunk of dragon-thrown debris was hurled high into the air, but none was close enough to make the _noise _that she'd heard down in the tunnels.

Merida smiled sharply, nodding at another armored woman, and magic sparkled around her. Katrina looked at the armored woman—_magician_—oddly. She looked almost familiar.

"Have I seen you before?" she asked. "In the Varden's camp in Surda, perhaps?"

The woman, who stood strong and proud, tilted her head back. "Perhaps," she said, "and perhaps not."

"No," said Katrina slowly, "no, I remember you, you were coming in to see the fortune teller just as I was leaving."

The woman laughed, a deep, powerful sound. "Merida. You've picked up another stray, I see."

Merida grinned. "This one's a keeper," she said happily. "We have a leader here."

The woman grunted, gazing up at the wall.

"You tricked me," Katrina hissed. "You got us out before it was time! There's no fight here! We'll be killed!"

"Or we'll find Marcus Tabor before anyone else gets hurt and stop the fighting in time," the other woman pointed out, her eyes gleaming. "Think about it, little warrior. If we hide down there until it's _time, _it will be too late. But if we attack now, while everyone's looking at the wall…"

_She has a point, _Katrina thought grudgingly. She groaned, urging her horse forward a little. "Very well," she said heavily. "Shall we?"

Merida smiled, and the rest of the assembled slaves stamped their feet, fire rising in their eyes.

"We shall."

_Damn! _Roran thought, ducking into the shadows, pulling his group of fighters to a stop. _Damn Tabor and all his kinsmen! _ Swords flashed, stabbing at the men in the shadows and Roran batted them aside, lashing out and retreating, trying to _hide_ so he could get to the Star Quarter.

It wasn't working.

Someone had told Captain Tabor that there were traitors in the Red Guard, and Roran's precious element of surprise had been _lost _before he could even begin to use it.

He had split his Guard in half. Tak and the archers went up on the wall where they were fighting for their lives even now, struggling to fend off the rest of the Imperials, pinned between stone and a long fall down.

Roran, Jared, and a group of less than a hundred men, the other half, had made it through the Moon Quarter with no trouble, but halfway through Sun, they had been attacked.

Their element of surprise had been turned against them.

Roran should have seen it coming. The whole thing had been a setup from the beginning, he saw that now. Captain Tabor wouldn't have let them in the city unless he'd been planning to use them as fodder or trap and slaughter them. He wasn't an idiot.

_I, apparently, am, _Roran thought sourly, bursting from the shadows for just a moment to crush a soldier's throat. _I can't _believe _I was so stupid! We're trapped!_

"General!" Jared bellowed. Blood streamed from a cut on his face and his eyes were wild. "General, we have to get out of here! They're herding us to the wall!"

And so they were. The Imperial soldiers were pressing Roran's ragtag group closer and closer to the city walls, where they could pin them and slaughter them at their leisure.

Roran bared his teeth, striking again and again, crushing armor and splitting skulls. "Push back!" he roared.

The Red Guard tried, valiantly, but it was no use. There were simply too many enemies and the Red Guard had to give ground or else they would all die.

Farther and farther away they were pushed, the tall spires of the cathedral slimming in the skyline.

Roran howled, enraged, and fought like a berserker, but even he was just a man.

He couldn't fight them all.

He bled from a dozen small wounds, nicks to his arms and legs and face where swords had bitten but slid past.

Fury sang in his blood. He didn't know what to _do! _He was trapped, and getting closer and closer to the wall—

_This shouldn't be happening! _he thought. _I've fought worse! I've fought Urgals, and Halflings, and _Hounds, _for the gods' sake! We are better than this!_

"Men!" he howled, raising his voice above the clash and clang. "My brothers! Come on! We've fought stronger enemies than this! We've slain Death's Hounds! Where is our strength? Rise! Rout them! We can!"

He shoved forward with all his strength, tackling the nearest soldier and forcing him to fall back into his comrades, breaking the line of steadily-advancing men—

"Come on!" Jared echoed, his voice a dragon's roar, and he too lunged and slammed into the oncoming line.

The Red Guard howled and followed, crashing and abandoning nimble swordplay for brutal, all-out brawling.

Blood sprayed and the soldiers fell back, stunned, unprepared for such sheer _determination. _Roran crushed a man's neck and grinned wildly, teeth flashing. He abandoned his shield, holding his hammer in one hand and drawing the silver fang into the other.

"We are Hounds' Teeth!" he bellowed. "Faster than they are, stronger than they are! Forward!"

Again and again the Red Guard rallied, throwing themselves at their enemies and tearing into them like wolves into deer, slashing and clawing and crushing every bit of skin they could reach.

The tide, all at once, turned against Dras Leona's Guard, and the Red Guard pushed them back. They gained the ground they had lost and then more, painting the streets red and littering the alleyways with bodies.

There was a great, despairing shout amongst the remaining Imperial soldiers and one by one they either turned to flee or dropped their weapons, falling to their knees.

"Stop!" Roran bellowed. "Stop, they've surrendered!"

But the Red Guard didn't listen. They hacked and tore at the defenseless men, roaring in fury, and Roran shouted again, trying to get their attention but they wouldn't _listen_—

And then everything fell still and silent.

Jared stood at the center of the fray, his sword raised high to slash down on a defenseless, wide-eyed young man.

A knife stuck out of Jared's neck, and blood bubbled, thick, from his lips.

He fell.

Roran rushed to his side, dropping his weapons to get ahold of his friend, pressing his hands to the wound.

His fingers were warm and sticky within seconds.

"Jared," Roran whispered. "Jared, what—What happened?"

Jared tried to speak, breath oozing from his ruined throat, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he died.

"_Shit,_" Roran swore, and straightened.

He looked around blindly, ready to slaughter whoever killed his _friend, _whoever jammed a knife in his throat and made him die in horrible, blood-soaked pain—

A young boy, no more than seven or eight, stood in front of the crouched soldier, his arms out protectively. He had another knife in his hands, raised to throw, and his eyes were terrified.

"Don't 'urt my papa!" he sobbed.

Roran's hands shook. This child had just killed a man.

The General gathered his sword and hammer, closed Jared's eyes gently and pulled the knife from this throat.

"Men," he said quietly, cracked, "let's move. They've surrendered. That's enough."

Wordlessly, the Red Guard fell in behind him as he led them through the Sun Quarter. They were stunned—no one expected a child to do _that_—but they understood.

The Star Quarter's door was thick but unguarded, and it was easy to crack it open and slip inside.

The streets sat empty. All the wealthy were probably cowering, then, afraid to come outside, or in the cathedral praying to their dead gods.

Roran curled his lip, pain and fury swelling inside them. He'd show _them _who was a god, and who was not.

"Come," he said, and led the way on.

The walls were a mess, even from this distance. The dragons, flashing in the light, had torn huge chunks from them and only one war machine was still working, hurling out onto the Varden below.

The northwestern wall was overrun. The elves had taken it, then; Roran could see the open gate from here.

And the dragons were wreaking havoc on the Varden's side, dueling with Halflings in the air.

Dras Leona was falling.

Roran grinned.

The way to the cathedral was easy to find, because it sat and the highest point of the city, crouched like some great, ugly monster ready to devour small children.

_It looks like a Lethrblaka, _Roran thought, remembering the creatures. He thought of Helgrind, and the atrocities committed there, and swore to tear the cathedral to the ground.

No one stopped them. A line of smoke spread higher and higher—somewhere, the city was burning, and the southern gates shuddered.

"Just a little more," Roran murmured, all-out sprinting towards the huge spires. "Trumpet!"

The huge black warhorse, who had been running and fighting alongside the Guard all this time, surged forward. Roran mounted him swiftly and kicked him forward, urging him faster, faster—

The great horse turned the corner, and reared back suddenly in surprise, his sharp hooves flailing.

"_Damn it,_" Roran hissed, clinging on, his fingers slipping on Trumpet's smooth coat. "What is _wrong _with you, you cursed horse?"

"Roran?"

His breath caught in his chest.

Katrina stood before him astride a skinny, limp-tailed little mare, her hair the color of fire and her eyes wide, hand pressed protectively against her belly.

"_Katrina?"_ He could barely believe it. _Here she was, _after months of searching, desperately looking for her, and he'd been _right, _she had been in Dras Leona, he knew she was, and she was _here_—

He nearly fell on his face scrambling off Trumpet's back, reaching for her and dragging her into his arms.

Katrina laughed and cried into his neck, warm, solid, _real, _and she smelled like sweat and metal.

"You're here!" he cried. "You're here, you're here, oh my god I missed you, I've been looking for you—"

She kissed him, raw and desperate, and he felt her heart thunder against his chest through the crude leather armor she wore.

"Roran," she breathed, "Roran, oh Roran, I was so worried, I felt you nearly _die_—"

"I'm alright. Katrina, I'm fine, and you're fine, and the baby—"

"Also fine," she assured him. "We're all fine, we're alive and we _found you—"_

He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring her warmth and presence.

"General," said Jensen, his voice anxious and apologetic all at once. "As touching as this is, we have a bit of an issue."

Roran looked up sharply and was surprised to see that he and Katrina were surrounded by _people, _both Red Guard and ragged, fierce-eyed slaves.

"Yes?" he said.

Jensen pointed up. "The King's reinforcements have arrived," he murmured.

Roran looked up at the sky, and closed his eyes in despair.

High up on the winter wind, wrapped in gleaming, burnished sliver armor and streaming azure fire, rode Saphira.


	50. Chapter Forty Nine: Awe

**Hi everyone! Apologies for the wait. I have been so busy lately, it's ridiculous. **

**Anyway, some questions that I will address: **

**1) Eragon is still dead. Chapters 47-50 are taking place _at the same time, _so Eragon is still technically dead, which means to Saphira the bond is still broken.**

**2) The phoenix feather is, in fact, a powerful healing device. It can be used to cure any injury or it can be given to Death, for which he will release one soul per feather. The feathers can only be used once, however, because otherwise that would be the biggest deus ex machina in the world. **

**3) To fictionreader specifically: No, Eragon's death hasn't granted him any special powers, just a new perspective and knowledge :)**

**4) A Rider-bond can be in fact broken by Death (it is canon). I made a mistake in an earlier chapter where I said that it could not be, and I have since fixed that.**

**5) To nicknames89: Elva and Tariku are still in play, we just haven't had a Raltin POV about them yet. Keep your eyes peeled!**

**Thanks for all of the reviews! You guys are amazing, and I'm so excited to _finish this thing. _**

**Also, I wrote this chapter while listening to the score "Death is the Road to Awe" by Clint Mansell. Good mood music, if'n you're interested. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle or any of the references you might notice within. **

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"Here is a small fact. You are going to die." –Marcus Zusak, _The Book Thief _

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Chapter Forty-nine: Awe

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The Rider-bond snapped cleanly, without any heat or force and barely any pain, and Murtagh fell into the Vault of Souls with a howl shredding his throat.

_Thorn! _he roared. _Thorn, Thorn, THORN! _

His dragon didn't answer. The space he always occupied in Murtagh's mind, that warm, loving, dragon-wild space, was just _gone. _Cut away, like it never existed.

It didn't hurt, and this, perhaps, was the worst of all.

It should _hurt. _All the stories said it did, that a broken bond was _unimaginable, _was the worst pain possible, that it drove Riders mad, destroyed them completely.

This didn't hurt. It was just _emptiness. _Absence. A hole that Murtagh couldn't name or identify, only feel like an old scar, and it terrified him.

He fell in the darkness, and hit the water with a tremendous, but silent, splash.

The water hurt. Cold like knives tore at him, ripping the breath from his lungs. His skin blistered and he howled, gratefully accepting _pain _to replace the emptiness, and he clawed upwards for Thorn, for his dragon—

It was Raltin who pulled him, soaking, from the river.

Raltin's eyes were shadowed and his jaw clenched, but he was silent. Murtagh kept on howling—he didn't care, how could he care when Thorn was _gone_?—and Arya shrieked in the ancient language, hurling spell after spell up at the darkened place where the Rock of Kuthain blocked their path.

"It's no use," Raltin whispered, and his voice cut Murtagh at the knees. He collapsed, not even trying to support himself, scrapping his hands on the rough-hewn stone, and thought _Thorn…_

Arya's cries died, and the flares of green magic flickered and went out.

For a long, heartbroken moment, none of the Riders moved. Then, in a voice that cracked out of him, Murtagh whispered, "What have we done?"

Raltin shrugged. He alone seemed unaffected—did his bond not break? Or did he just not care? Murtagh was suddenly _furious, _and he stood up with a snarl, drawing Zar'roc. The heat inside him stirred, interested by the possibility of bloodshed.

"Why aren't you angry_?_" Murtagh growled. "Why aren't you scared_? _Your Rider-bond has broken!"

"We'll fix it again!" Raltin snapped. "It's not forever! Death can't keep us down here forever, we're alive! We are still alive, look, you bleed!"

Murtagh looked down at his scraped hands and sure enough, blood leaked out of them slowly, bright pricks of red in the eerie light.

_I am alive, _he thought. He heard his heart beating in his ears, felt the blood stirring in his veins. He, Murtagh Stormbreaker, was alive.

Some of the fear inside him faded. He was alive, and that meant he could still fight. He wouldn't let _anything _keep him from Thorn again, not even Death itself.

Resolved, he drew himself up, sheathing his sword. The fire flared, banishing the cold, and then faded again. He breathed.

"Arya," Murtagh said, reaching out to the elf-woman. "Are you alright?"

She met his eyes, and hers were wild_. _"What if," she said, "we can't fix it? What if the bond is broken forever?"

Murtagh flinched. "We'll fix it," he murmured, looking at Raltin. "Right?"

"Right," the indigo Rider said strongly. He sounded confident, and Murtagh wondered where this sudden confidence had come from.

Arya smiled, jagged and bitter. "And what, I wonder, will we have to give for that to happen?"

"Listen," Murtagh said. He made a decision, right then and there. He would not give up. He would _finish this, _and then he would go back to Thorn and Nasuada and live for a thousand years with them at his side. He would not be afraid. "We've come this far. We've gone across the east and we've been through so much—we've fought spirits and demons and the hounds of hell itself. What's a little further? A little more of our blood? We have plenty to give."

_Plenty to give. _

Arya closed her eyes. Finally, she nodded. "Very well. Let us go, then, before we run out, yes?"

Murtagh blinked, sending a gentle curl of warmth to her—her own mind bled as his did, screaming for that missing piece—and turned around.

The Vault of Souls was less like a vault and more like a long, narrow tunnel.

A river, silver and giving off pale, shimmering light, swept by them, plunging deeper into the cave. It was the same river from above, pouring down in a silent waterfall, and in it were those thousand faces, rushing by.

They looked peaceful.

Murtagh swallowed. Embedded into the tunnel walls were huge, clear chunks of crystal, and they reflected the river's light, glowing faintly. A ledge, a few scant feet wide, clung to the wall, following the river deeper.

He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to any god that might be listening. "Come on then," he said, and limped forward.

He didn't try to light a werelight. It seemed a bad idea, for some reason, and the river gave off light enough to see by, and together the three Riders worked their way along the slick ledge, careful not to fall into the frigid water.

Deeper and deeper they went, and as they did so, cold began to seep into every pore, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until Murtagh's skin crackled with ice and frost nearly glued his eyes shut. His breath steamed in front of him.

Despite the ice gathering on him, Murtagh felt the cold in only a vague sort of way. Fire simmered in his blood, keeping the cold out.

_Can you help my friends? _the Red Rider asked the fire.

There was a hum, and heat gathered at the tips of his fingers. He brushed Arya's hand and Raltin's shoulders, imagining heat flowing from him to them.

The frost crackled on them, but their shivers stopped.

Warmth spread around them, pushing the ice back, and to Murtagh's surprise, the most delicate of roses began to bloom along the walls, their petals shining with frost. His bones hummed, and light, ethereal and silver, washed from ahead, far down in the depths of the Vault of Souls.

"We're close," Murtagh said. His voice was unnaturally loud down here, echoing off the newly-grown flowers.

The river flashed, faces rushing by, and he swallowed. He leaned heavily on Zar'roc. "Do you have the feather, Arya?"

The elf drew it from the folds of her clothes. The edges were faded but it was _vibrant _again, blessed by the spirits.

Murtagh nodded, steeling himself. "Very good," he murmured. "I think we are about to need it."

He followed the pale growing light to the end of the tunnel, and then stepped out into the biggest cave he had seen in his life.

The river flowed through to the center, where it stopped into one great, shivering pool. Faces swirled in the depths, and flowers, roses of every shape and color, bloomed along the ragged rocks, drawing life from the layer of ice that coated everything with a perfect, crystalline sheen.

Murtagh's breath caught, and the fire inside him stuttered, wavering, before pulsing again.

Very carefully, he picked his way forward, avoiding flowers and frost. He stopped at the edge of the deep pool, and licked his lips.

"So how does this work?" he wondered aloud. "How does one summon Death?"

"Other than die?" Arya asked, a little ironically. "I have no idea."

"Raltin?"

The indigo Rider shrugged. "Not a clue."

Murtagh stared down at the trembling water, chewing his lip. How did you summon a god? He had no idea—the only one he'd ever had contact with had literally fallen into him.

_How do I summon Death? _he asked.

The fire was silent.

"Wait," said Arya suddenly, closing her eyes. "We have to think about this. What is Death?"

Murtagh blinking, uncomprehending. "Death is death," he said. "It's the end. It's falling asleep and never waking up again."

"No, think harder," the green Rider urged. "I don't know any of this, the elves don't have gods. You're human. You've _seen _religious rites, at least?"

"Once or twice," Murtagh said, thinking of Dras Leona. He'd been sent there a year ago to intimidate Governor Tabor, and he had been forced to watch the High Priest mutilate a young slave in the name of the gods. What had he said? There had been a whole ritual—

"Death is the opposite of life!" the red Rider crowed. "Do you remember the stories? Everything we've heard so far? It's all about _balance. _Opposing forces, holding the universe together. The white dragon and the black dragon. Sun and moon, Father Sky's eyes. Lord Flame and Lord Ice."

"Life," Arya whispered, understanding dawning in her eyes, "and death."

"So if life is the opposite of Death…" Raltin said slowly.

"Then life is how we'll summon him." Murtagh drew his battle-scarred blade in one smooth, familiar motion. The sword, lightning-webbed, gleamed faintly. He didn't know what the spirits had done to it, exactly, but he knew it was magicked somehow.

He brought his sword to his palm, and breathed.

"What are you doing?" Arya asked.

"Blood is life," Murtagh murmured. His voice, in this big cave, was soft. He slit open his palm, watching blood, brilliant and thick, bead up and fill his cupped hand. It soaked his fingers and he cradled it to his chest, waiting.

"Lord Ice!" he bellowed. "We must speak with you!"

And he overturned his hand, sending droplets of blood into the deep, silvery water.

The reaction was instant.

The pool flashed white, freezing over in a heartbeat, and the roses growing on the rocks cracked. Deep, bluish light built up in the frigid depths, roaring upward, flashing and sparkling off every shimmering rock until there was so muchit _hurt_—

"You called?" whispered a high, cold voice, and Murtagh opened his eyes.

A child stood in the center of the ice, his eyes sullen and sad. Rags hung off his trembling frame and his lips were blue, his hair sodden.

The red Rider swallowed. "We must speak to Lord Ice," he said.

The child smiled. "I am he."

"_You?_"

The child laughed, a brittle sound, and then the child _changed. _It swelled, boiled upwards, and became a tall, lean man with gray skin and gray hair, riding a gray horse.

"I am the Gray Man," it sang, ice spreading from its feet. The horse rider became a king, gray robes swirling around a silvered beard, a crown of ice resting on his brow. "And also the Weeping Woman."

Skin peeled back, turning pale and ghostly, and gray hair flushed raven. Tears, bright as crystals, rolled down a young woman's face.

"You're Death," Murtagh murmured, and his breath stuck in his throat.

Death laughed, shedding the woman's shape for a wolf's, sauntering across the freezing water, only to drop his fur and become a sleek, ice-eyed cat. He pressed against Murtagh's legs, and he was so cold it transcended pain.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he whispered. The cat swelled, bursting at the seams, and a horde of spiders swept out, swarming over Arya's feet before spiraling up into a one-eyed old crone who cackled toothlessly at Raltin. "What brings three Dragon Riders to my door?"

"We have a bargain to strike with you," Murtagh said, and Death spun, laughter ceasing abruptly, talons bursting from the crone's fingers and dagger-like fangs from her mouth.

"I strike no bargains!" Death screeched, and the old crone became a towering serpent, swaying, eyes vicious and fangs dripping poison.

Raltin swore and even Arya flinched, but Murtagh held firm. Death wouldn't hurt them, not here. It was not their time.

"I am Death! The Lord Ice, the taker of souls and Warden of the Lands Beyond! I strike no deals! I do not return what is rightfully mine!"

Death dropped, shifting into a tall, dark-skinned, battle-scarred man, dressed in robes and jewels. Raltin flinched, and Murtagh frowned. "I make no bargains," Death crooned, running its fingers down the indigo Rider's face. "Not without the proper incentive, anyway. What do you want from me, little Dragon Riders? Your Vrael back? Or perhaps Oromis?"

"Eragon," Murtagh said. "We want Eragon Shadeslayer."

Death laughed. "You can't have him."

"We have something to trade."

"YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM!" Death bellowed, suddenly a towering dragon, roaring in Murtagh's face and knocking him flat on his back.

Murtagh's heart stuttered and terror nearly blinded him, but he swallowed and pushed on. "We have a phoenix feather."

Death paused, and the raging dragon became a hatchling, head canted curiously. "A phoenix feather? The Sorrow-bird has appeared to you?"

"Arya?"

The green Rider licked her lips nervously, and pulled the feather from its hiding place gingerly. The Lord Ice became a child again, taking the feather from her hands and turning it over.

"Spirit-touched," he hissed. "The land, it seems, is against me in this."

"That's the deal, isn't it?" Murtagh persisted, picking himself up. "A phoenix feather for a soul."

The child bared tiny, needle-sharp teeth. "You earth-dwellers are adorable, you know."

"That's the deal, _isn't it?_"

"Who are you to make deals?" Death purred, and put on Selena's face, tossing dark hair and smiling at Murtagh. "Who are you to demand what is mine, _Fire's son?_ You are not one of my own. I owe you nothing."

"You have what we need. We have held up our end of the ancient deal. There's a phoenix feather. Now give us Eragon."

Death cackled, becoming a gaunt, lean dragon, more bone than muscle and flesh. "Why?"

"He died before his time," Murtagh said.

"How do you know? Are you the god of Death? I didn't think so."

"_I _was supposed to die," the red Rider said strongly, "but Eragon sacrificed himself. You cannot keep him."

"Would you give yourself in his place?"

Murtagh's heart wavered, for a moment, but the fire pushed him on. "Yes."

"Bah," Death snarled, slipping into a skinny wolf and pacing, ice spreading from beneath snowy paws. "The Old Law forbids me from taking you, else you would die where you stood, insolent creature. You have given me a feather. The Law bids me to release your loved one from my realm."

"So release him," Murtagh said.

"It isn't that easy," Death howled, becoming a howling winter storm, pale eyes gleaming. "Did you think it would be? I am Death!"

Murtagh closed his eyes. "I know."

"Very well," said Lord Ice abruptly, dropping into the child's shape once more. "Your Shade-slayer is in the Vault. Call him, and if he comes, you may have him."

Murtagh grinned, turning, ready to shout his brother's name, but Arya said, "Wait."

Death stopped.

"What's the catch?" she murmured.

"Arya, he said we could have Eragon back. Let's just call him and leave—"

"It can't be this easy," she said, eyeing Death, who grinned. "Our Rider-bonds are still broken, and we're trapped down here. That's what you want, isn't it? Us stuck, out of your way?"

"I do not like meddlers, it is true," the god said, almost conversationally, flowing into a graceful, white-furred deer. "Those who thrash against the natural order of things. Riders. Elves. Humans too, though you're not nearly as irksome. If you were trapped down in my caves, well. I wouldn't complain."

_How do we get out of this? _Murtagh thought, fear and panic beginning to set in. If they got Eragon but didn't fix the Rider-bonds—

It almost didn't bear thinking about.

"What do you want?" Murtagh asked.

"Hmm?"

"You're the Lord Ice," he said slowly, wracking his brains, trying to remember every scrap he'd ever been told about this being. "You _do _accept bargains—like the phoenix's feather—when you gain something. The feather gives you warmth, right? You'll make a deal if you get something from it."

Death made a grudgingly impressed sound. "And what do you have, any of you, that could possibly interest me?"

"What do you want?" Arya said, strongly.

Death smiled, and turned into a shock-white raven. "I want what you hold dear," he croaked. "I want the end of the world, so I can stop collecting souls. I want you to _stop defying me, _and render unto me what is rightfully mine!"

"What do you want?" Arya repeated, and the raven became a giant dragon, its scales pearly white.

"_Everything!" _

And suddenly, Murtagh understood. He remembered the story of the black dragon Esca, who had stolen immortality from Death and given it to his people, and how _furious _Death had become, blocked again and again from his duty—no, his _right—_at every turn.

Because this was all Lord Ice had, wasn't it? He had creatures alive on the world to look after. All of his creations were cold and frozen, like he was. The Hounds made their den here in his shadow and his other creatures only wandered the earth in stories. The others, Lords Flame and Earth, Ladies Water and Wind, had their own creations alive and thriving, but Death had nothing.

His only task was to collect and watch over the souls of his siblings' creations—that was the one thing he was allowed to do, and when living beings stole that from him, used spells and magic and trickery to avoid him, well.

He became devastatingly, wildly, desperately _angry._

Murtagh understood that kind of anger.

"I will make you a deal, Lord Ice," he said strongly, his voice echoing in the frozen cavern. "You say that you hate it when we lie and sneak past you?"

"I do," the god rumbled.

Murtagh licked his teeth, gathering strength. "Then take my immortality."

Silence fell over the Vault of Souls.

_Murtagh! _Arya hissed, and even Raltin looked alarmed.

The red Rider did not flinch.

"Do you know what you say, little Fire-child?" Death murmured. His pale eyes flashed.

Murtagh nodded once, jerkily. "Aye," he said. "Every Dragon Rider is immortal, unless blade or sickness takes us, and you _hate _that, don't you?"

"Everything is made to die," Death agreed. "Why you fight it, I'll never know."

"Well I won't fight it," Murtagh promised. "I'll give you my immortality—what once belonged to you—and I will come when I am called."

Death laughed, long and deep and loud. "Your immortality, for the reparation of the Rider-bonds?"

"All of them," Murtagh said.

"Know you what you do?" the Lord Ice hissed, a dragon of bones again, clattering against the ice. "Know you what deal you are making?"

_I am shortening my own life, by millennia, maybe, _Murtagh thought, tinged with sorrow. _Thorn, I'm so sorry, but this is the only way back to you. _

"Yes."

"Very well," the bone-dragon said, and at once began to change again. Ice coated the bones, sparkling and moving like blood, and roses bloomed, a hundred thousand of them in every size and color, covering Death's body like fragrant scales.

Frost glittered on every petal, and they wavered in a wind Murtagh couldn't see.

"This is my true shape," Death whispered, swaying. Terrible beauty shone in his face, and his eyes, Murtagh thought, were kinder than they'd ever been. "Each rose petal that falls is a death in my siblings' world. Find the rose where your petal grows, and pluck it, and your Rider-bonds shall be repaired."

_There are so many,_ Murtagh thought, awed.

"You don't have to do this," Arya whispered urgently, taking his arm. "You don't have to hurt yourself for us."

The red Rider gently shook himself free. "It's alright," he said. "I don't mind. We all die sometime, right?"

She pressed her mouth into a thin line, but stepped back. She understood. Of course she did—she was Arya. Sacrifice lived in her bones. Murtagh knew what she had given up to go on this journey. He knew she had lost her entire people, closed herself from them forever, to bring Eragon back.

_It's my turn now, _he thought, and stepped forward.

Death did not move, watching him with sharp eyes. "Choose wisely," he hummed.

Murtagh walked around the whole of Death twice, searching for a petal that might belong to him, that he could pluck and fix this entire mess with.

There were so many. Red roses, like Thorn's scales, black ones like Murtagh's past, gray ones like his future and blue ones like his eyes.

He didn't know which to choose.

He knew that the wrong choice would be fatal—he'd be trapped down here, forever, unable to get back to Thorn.

_On Death's forehead was the biggest rose of all…_

Murtagh stopped. Glaedr's story echoed in his bones, and he turned, searching Death's face. There, high up on his forehead between his glittering eyes, was an enormous, pure-white rose, and tendrils of light ribboned from it to feed all the other roses.

"The White Rose," Murtagh breathed. The rose that had been stolen, once, and that Death had granted immortality for.

Moving forward, almost as if he was being guided, Murtagh reached up and hesitated, fingers hovering over the great rose.

_He Who Burns, _he thought, remembering his name.

There, hidden beneath larger and more brilliant petals, almost completely hidden beneath the grandeur of some other lives, was a little, shriveled, half-burned white petal, and Murtagh closed his fingers over it.

He pulled, and the petal came away in his palm.

Death snarled. "Very well," he hissed, drawing back, shifting forms so that his precious roses were hidden again.

A deep, visceral part of Murtagh screamed out, pulled loose, and then vanished. He gasped, vision blackening, and swayed.

Arya caught him, holding him up, and he held tight to the petal, presenting it blindly to Death.

He ached inside, as though some part of him had been cut out with a rusty sword, but there was a _warmth _too, a well of magic that he knew would repair the Rider-bond.

_Thorn, forgive me. _

Death closed cold fingers over Murtagh's own, child-shaped once more. Ice grew, covering the petal in a clear, frozen block.

"When this ice melts, you will die," Death said, taking it from Murtagh. He set it gently to the side, protected in his Vault of Souls. "Be wary of how much fire you wield, my brother's child. The more you use it, the faster your death comes."

Murtagh swayed. "Now give us Eragon," he rasped. "We've repaired the bonds, and given you the phoenix feather. Give us Eragon back."

Death bared his teeth, annoyed, but bowed. "Very well. You have fulfilled your ancient bargain. I suppose I must do the same."

He took the phoenix feather and threw it, letting it rest on his frozen pool. At once heat bloomed, turning the ice bright red, and light began to ooze from the depths.

"He is in there, somewhere," Death said. "Call him, and if you can drag him out, he is yours."

Murtagh nodded grimly, and he and Arya started forward together, ready to get their Eragon back.

"But remember," Death called, "do not try to cheat me. I am far older than you, Fire's son, and far, far more vicious."

Murtagh nodded, and stepped into the water.

Instantly the water recoiled, surging upwards in a great screaming wall, boiling with faces. He flinched back, alarmed, but Arya held him steady. She drew Erisdar.

"Fight them," she said, and hacked at the faces in the water. Her green blade flashed and the faces reared away.

Murtagh drew Zar'roc and the spirit-blessed blade wounded the water, scalding it and driving it _back_—

The water reeled away, and the phoenix feather touched the earth at the bottom of the pool.

There was a sound like a crack of thunder, and something—Death—screamed in rage and pain, and light flashed brighter than any sun and the abyss yawned before them, vast and hungry, and Murtagh shoved his hand through the new rift between worlds—

"Eragon!" he and Arya called together, reaching out into the blackness where water and cold and sharp, silvery talons bit at their hands. "Eragon!"

For a long, heavy moment, there was nothing. And then—

A pair of hands, strong and sure, grasped Murtagh's and Arya's outstretched hands.

"Eragon," Murtagh said, relieved, overjoyed, and pulled.

* * *

**Thanks! I hope to see you soon!**

**~WSS**


	51. Chapter Fifty: Braveheart

**Hey everyone! I want to thank you so much for your support these last few weeks, it has meant the world to me. I have talked to some of the moderators of our lovely site and have ironed our some...misunderstandings, so I'm back! Woo! **

**I still maintain what I said about Critics United, and will stand by what I said. As such, the previous Author's Note will remain for quite some time. I'll take it down eventually, but for now, I feel like everyone should know about it. **

**A clarification: I am not against the organization per say, just the way it's being executed. Explicit MA fics have no place on this site (there's an adult fan fiction) and should be removed. My issue is not with what CU was _intended _to be, it's with what CU has _become. _There's a difference between keeping the site clean and bullying, and some of them don't seem to realize that. **

**And please, if you or someone you know if having issues with them, come talk to me. I'm not going to let these guys ruin our site. :)**

**Anyway, next chapter, woo! This was supposed to be in Saphira's POV but I couldn't make it work right, so, well. Here. Hope you enjoy? The next chapter is also mostly done and should be up either tomorrow or Sunday. We shall see how editing goes in the morning. **

**I love you guys! You're so amazing! Please don't ever stop being awesome, wonderful, caring people. You are legitimately the best. **

**Disclaimer: Still not mine!**

* * *

"Big things have small beginnings." –David 8, _Prometheus_

* * *

Chapter Fifty: Braveheart

* * *

Sunna-of-the-yellow-scales was not a very brave dragon. She didn't like fighting all that much, and war scared her, but her friends-pack-mates-wing-brothers were here and so she would be too, even if she didn't like it.

And she really, _really _didn't like it.

_It's alright, my dear, _Vé murmured, scratching her scales as she rolled, avoiding arrows. _You're doing just fine. _

Sunna dove, wind slipping over her scales, and loosed a blast of sunshine-fire on a horde of soldiers. She hated their cries but blew fire again and again, driving back the Varden's enemies.

On the wall, Deloi-bronze-scale ripped into catapults and torn great chunks out of the walls, and somewhere in the city itself life-mate-Konungr shredded his way through houses and garrisons, clawing towards the center of the city.

The Varden was going to win this fight. The Empire hadn't been prepared, and they had fallen surprisingly quickly back into the city itself, attempting to barricade themselves inside. Sunna was aiming for the heavy-wooden-gate-door keeping her allies out. If she broke through it, the Varden could rush into the city and all this fighting would end.

_Just stay focused, _Vé reassured her. _It will be over soon. _

Sunna rolled, arrows whistling past her sunshine scales, and dove, harrying the Empire's beetle-men farther and farther away from the wall, before turning back and slamming into it.

With a tremendous crash, the weakened wood gave and she tumbled-rolled-fell into the city. The Varden cheered, surging in after her, and the Empire despaired.

Satisified, Sunna rose into the air again, breathing heavily. She hated this, but it was necessary. They had to take Dras Leona so that they could go on to Uru'baen in the spring. Sunna knew that.

But she still didn't like it.

_It won't be long now, _Vé promised.

Sunna nodded and dove again, taking out a war machine. Fire and blood swarmed around her. She hated it.

And then, over in the distance, there was a terrible-deep-dragon-roar.

Sunna froze. _Shruikan, _she thought, and her heart grew fear-cold.

There was another roar, and another, accompanied by shrieking, jeering Halfling-cries.

The Empire cheered. The Varden despaired. Sunna remained frozen, because riding high on the wind, accompanied by a host of Halfling-monsters, was Saphira-of-the-bright-scales, dressed in wicked silver war armor.

_Oh no! _Sunna cried. _Saphira! Saphira, can you hear me? _

But Saphira didn't answer. Her mind was blocked-guarded-protected from Sunna, all broken bits of sharp pain and anger, and the blue dragoness roared her fury.

_What's happening? _Konungr rumbled, rising up from the anthill-city. _Saphira!_

_She is lost, _Sunna mourned, grief clawing at her heart. _She can't hear me! _

_The King's magic, _Deloi-Rider-Lovissa said grimly, pulling up from her own pursuits. _She is bound. He must have found a weakness in her, one that let him gain control over her. We watched for weeks, we all saw him come and speak to her. _

Sunna roared, mourning their loss. To lose Saphira, leader-of-the-pack, like this was _terrible. _This was a fate worse than death. Saphira was not herself. She was broken by the black-king-murderer, destroyed, turned against her friends and hunt-mates—

_Sunna, _Vé said tenderly. _I know. But we have to fight. Don't lose yourself to despair. _

Sunna thought of her life before, deep down in the caves. Hidden, a half-life, not one for a dragon at all. Saphira and her Eragon had saved them from that. They had taught Sunna and Vé to fight, to stand up for themselves and never let tyrant-egg-breakers like Galbatorix force them into hiding.

_We are dragons, _Sunna thought, angling her wings upwards. _We are dragons, and we let no one hurt our pack! _

Roaring in fury-white-hot-rage now, she soared upward, aiming for Saphira's armored side.

_Vé! Get ready!_

_I am, dearest. _

Together they surged through the seething mass of Halflings-not-dragons, dodging magic and dirty claws.

_Saphira! _

The great dragoness turned, and Sunna saw that her eyes were blank.

_Saphira! Can you hear me?_

_Sunna, what are you doing? _ Konungr bellowed, fear boiling through their mate-bond-link. _You'll die! _

_So will she, if we don't save her, _Sunna whispered back, and she knew it was true. Saphira was a proud she-dragon-of-the-hunt. She bent to no one. Her heart was mountain-wind, strong-and-free. Being forced into slavery would kill her.

_Perhaps that is why she accepted such a fate, _a traitorous little voice hissed inside Sunna's ears. _She mourns her lost Rider. Perhaps this is her way out. _

_No, _Sunna said back fiercely. _She would never choose such a coward's death. _

A Halfling lunged for her, shrieking in its beast-tongue, howling insults. Sunna turned to meet it, thundering her own battle-cry. She hated fighting, but she'd make an exception for this. Fire boiled, hot-as-the-sun, and she spat it at the Halfling's face and flew on.

_Konungr, keep them off of me. _

_I'm already ahead of you, _the orange dragon rumbled, and he and Erik were in the thick of it, their sword and claws splattering Halfling blood high into the air.

Deloi was among them too, his teeth gleaming, wolf-predator-dragon-white. _May the wind guide you true, _the older dragon said. _We'll defend your back. _

They too knew what Sunna had to do. She steeled herself, drawing up her skinny courage, and flew on, faster, faster.

Saphira was at the wall now, blue-scale-silver-armor, sowing fire and destruction on the Varden. Her eyes were still flat, still empty, and on her back there was no Rider.

_Saphira! _Sunna roared again. _Brightscales, listen to me! _

Saphira didn't turn. Her movements, usually so dragon-graceful and precise, were jerky, almost clumsy. She moved like a puppet Sunna had once seen as a hatchling, all wooden limbs. Her heart hurt.

_We have to save her, _Sunna said raggedly. _She's not—she's not herself. _

Vé knocked an arrow, pulling it back smoothly. _I know. _

_Saphira! _And Sunna caught up with the blue dragoness, slamming into her hard enough to carry them both over the side of the wall.

Sunna managed to stay aloft, her wings churning, but Saphira-of-the-blue-scales crashed into the city below, crushing houses as she writhed, shaking her head. Armor rattled, and Saphira snarled deeply.

_Saphira! _

The blue dragon reared up, tall in her forced fury, and fire sparked in her throat. Sunna swept up, dodging the jet of crackling flame, and threw back her own fire. The city sparked, and heat rolled upwards.

_Saphira! _

Saphira shoved off the ground, taking to the air with a she-dragon's speed, and Sunna cried out, diving to avoid those wicked teeth.

Vé loosed and arrow, hissing the words to guide it true. It slipped between Saphira's armor but she didn't seem to feel it. She roared, teeth bared, and blew another jet of fire-from-her-belly, lunging after Sunna across the sky.

_Saphira! _Sunna tried again, keeping just ahead of the other. Of the two, Sunna was the smaller dragon, and she wasn't wearing heavy armor. She was faster, and that meant though she probably couldn't outfight Saphira (she was the leader-of-the-hunt for a reason), she could _outfly _her.

Sunna furled her wings, dropping beneath Saphira and rising again before she could react. She sent sunshine-fire at the armor and it glowed bright red. The smell of burnt dragonflesh filled the air, but still Saphira didn't cry out. She only twisted, wings straining, and snapped after the smaller yellow dragon.

_Does she feel pain? _Sunna wondered, panting as she fought to avoid snapping teeth and gouts of blue flame.

_I don't think so. _Vé sent another arrow burrowing into the spaces between silver-shining-armor, but it didn't seem to affect Saphira at all. _Galbatorix must be blocking it from her somehow. _

_How? _

_How does he do anything? With the blackest of magic. He created the Painless Ones, after all. _

Sunna shuddered, snarling and kicking Saphira's head aside. Her claws tore at the blue dragoness's cheek, splattering blood, but still Saphira did not turn aside. It was almost like she couldn't.

And suddenly, Sunna got an idea.

_Vé, keep shooting her! _Sunna swept upwards, as high and as fast as she could go. Saphira roared thunderously, shaking the clouds, but she couldn't catch up, and soon Sunna hung suspended in the sky, a thousand feet above Saphira.

_What are you doing? _Vé asked, still firing arrow after arrow. At this height most of them missed, but some still hit their mark.

_She can't feel pain because there's a spell blocking her, right? _

_Right. _

_That can't be the same magic that holds her under the King's control. It has to be two spells, working at the same time. _

_Exactly, _Vé said, and he understood. Her Vé, her clever, smart, fearless Vé.

_Any spell that holds a dragon's heart must be a powerful one, _Sunna thought. _It has to be taking a massive amount of energy. _

_And at such distance, too, _Vé murmured. _Combined with the pain-spell…_

_He can't hold on to both, not if we push it! _Sunna crowed. Saphira was climbing, getting closer and closer, but the air was too thin. It couldn't hold the weight of dragon-and-armor, and she couldn't get close enough.

But Sunna could.

_So we push it, _Vé said grimly. _Cause as much pain as possible. Maybe Saphira can fight off the enchantment if the King is focusing on holding the pain-spell—_

Maybe. Maybe it would work. It might not, because even Sunna knew that Galbatorix was clever and strong. He had hundreds of her fallen-slave-brothers, and she remembered the Rider villages, lit with Forsworn flame.

But this was Saphira. She didn't deserve this.

For a moment, Sunna was paralyzed with fear, caught between terror and determination. She had to do this. She _had _to do this. _She had to_—

And Sunna furled her wings and dropped, falling a thousand feet towards Saphira's waiting jaws. Blue-hot-burning-fire ripped at the little yellow dragon, blistering her scales, but she screwed her eyes shut, fighting the pain.

Saphira snapped, teeth whirling, but Sunna slid by her, opening her own jaws wide and sinking them into her throat.

Saphira groaned, more surprised than hurt, and twisted her neck, reaching for Sunna's wings.

Sunna didn't care. With claw-and-fang she ripped at armor, tearing it loose and hurling it to the city below.

Vé loosed more arrows, hitting Saphira's cheeks and neck, hissing magic that turned his arrows to flame and oil, and fire swept up Saphira's body.

They fell.

Sunna found flesh and bit deep, hating Saphira's blood in her mouth, but she held on, tore and burned and snapped as best as she could without killing the other.

Saphira in turn clawed and bit, battering Sunna's lower half and slicing her belly, sinking her long, sharp teeth into Sunna's soft-yellow-wings.

The pain was unbearable, but Sunna fought on, biting-clawing-burning, doing everything she could to cause pain.

The fell, and life-mate-Konungr howled, terror blooming from him. _Sunna! _he bellowed. _Sunna, hold on! _

_Stay away, _Sunna sent to him. _You have to keep the Halflings off the Varden, stay _away—!

They fell, and Saphira struck a mighty blow to Vé, causing them both to scream in shared Rider-pain.

Blood filled Sunna's mouth. They were falling, and falling, and falling, and she reached for Saphira's mind, screaming _Saphira! _with all her might—

Magic, hot-black-_evil, _bubbled against Sunna and Galbatorix-the-slaver howled at her, screaming his fury, but he couldn't hold on to both spells, not across this distance, and Saphira roared—

They fell, and Sunna kicked off, wings straining, and then it was just Saphira falling, Sunna in her mind, screaming her name, screaming, screaming—

A spark.

There was a spark, hot, bright, _brilliant, _and Saphira's wings stirred, streaming blood.

It was too late for the dragoness to stop herself from falling but she managed to slow herself down, just enough that she slammed into the ground and lived.

Saphira roared in pain.

_Vé, _Sunna whispered, sinking to the ground. She was barely conscious, bleeding, burned, and he was crying in agony. _Vé, Vé, Vé. _

_My dear, _he murmured back, as they sank to the ground by Saphira—she too was unconscious, but twitching, almost fighting—and stayed there. _I think we did it. _

_Did we? _Sunna turned to great-blue-Saphira, taking in the wounds and the smoking armor. _Saphira? _

For a moment, there was nothing, only silence, only the faint hiss of steaming flesh and the scratch of claws on stone. Then, Saphira opened her eyes.

They were clear. Pain-filled, huge and liquid, but _clear. _There was a spark there.

_Little one, _Saphira rasped, her voice broken, old, ragged. _Little Braveheart. _

_Saphira, _Sunna said, relief-pleasure-pride-joy welling up inside her, blocking out the hurt. _You're okay. _

Dragons do not cry, but Saphira was. _Yes, _she said, and another joy welled up inside her, wild and fearless. Somewhere in Alagaesia, though Sunna did not know it, Death released one of his own. Somewhere, Eragon took his first breath. Somewhere, magic flared, stretching out across an entire land, seeking out Saphira's broken heart.

Somewhere, Eragon was alive.

Sunna closed her eyes. _We did it, Vé, _she whispered. _We did it._

* * *

**~WSS**


	52. Chapter Fiftyone: The Journey Home

**Sorry for the wait, everyone. My life has recently been one big mess after another. I'm working on it, though.**

**Thanks to all of you who have stayed with me for this long.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. All recognizable characters and places belong to Christopher Paolini. Everything else, however, is in fact mine.**

* * *

Chapter Fifty-One: The Journey Home

* * *

Eragon breathed.

Water pulled at him, howling and clawing at his shoulders, and he couldn't see through the torrent, but he didn't need to. There were hands in his, strong, familiar hands, and they wouldn't let him go. They wouldn't let him fall.

Water sloshed through the rift between worlds and talons dragged at Eragon's back, but he didn't turn and try to fight them. He knew, in the lands of the dead, that his friends and guides were protecting him. They wouldn't let Death's Women drag him back.

He breathed.

Water sucked into his lungs and he coughed, and tried to breathe again.

The hands pulled. It hurt, oh it hurt, but they pulled and he pushed and he didn't let go—

A scream, high, cold, and furious, splintered inside his ears. Claws—deeper ones, colder ones—tore at him. Screams rang in his head.

But he breathed. Again and again, blindly pressing forward, Eragon breathed. And then—

And then, with a sigh of broken worlds, he slipped free of Death and collapsed into his brother's waiting arms.

Eragon breathed.

His skin felt stretched too tight and his bones were too heavy. His lungs were too small to take in the air, and his heart seemed to forget itself, stumbling against his ribs.

He forced himself to breathe again, pushing air through his body. He felt cold. His ears rang, and the taste of magic was strong on and around him, pushing anxiously against his skin. Eragon fought it, at first, but he heard the echo of his mother's words, and let it in.

The magic—deep, clean, older than any magic he'd ever felt, magic from the creation of the world—washed through him like a river, and as it went it loosened his skin. It lightened his bones. It inflated his lungs and it wrapped around his heart, coaxing it to beat again.

He was alive. He was alive, he was alive, he was alive, Eragon Shadeslayer was alive, and he smiled up at Murtagh and Arya and croaked, "hello."

Murtagh laughed, and Arya reached down to cup his face.

"Hello," she said, and her voice was clearer than he remembered, ringing with joy. "Eragon, Eragon, hello."

He smiled and tried to make his legs work, standing unsteadily. His legs felt new, and they shuddered under his weight.

Murtagh caught him before he fell, leaning on Zar'roc to support the both of them, and Arya took his other side. Between them Eragon could stand, and he couldn't stop smiling.

"You came for me," he said, amazed.

"Of course we came for you, idiot," Murtagh said. "What, did you think I was going to let you just die and be the big hero?"

"I didn't want you to have to come for me," Eragon said, alarmed now that everything was sinking in. They would have had to travel far, so far, to come for him. They were in the Vault of Souls, weren't they? No one in Alagaesia knew where that was, so their journey must've been as long as his own, and just as hard.

Arya tightened her arm around his shoulders. "We weren't going to leave you," she said firmly. Her tone brokered no argument, her eyes hard and flinty.

He felt her loyalty, and it made his newly-beating heart sing. He squeezed her hand gently and turned to his brother.

"I meant what I did," he said. "It wasn't a mistake, me dying for you. I chose it."

"And I chose to come find you," Murtagh replied, just as evenly.

"Thank you."

His brother's blue eyes softened. "No," he said. "Thank you."

For a moment, Murtagh and Arya locked eyes. Something passed between them that Eragon didn't quite catch, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up (he'd forgotten how strange that felt). But then they broke eye contact and the feeling passed.

"What just happened?" Eragon asked curiously, looking between them.

Murtagh gave him a half-smile and Arya squeezed his shoulders. "Nothing," she said. "It has been a long few months, Eragon."

"How long has it been?"

"Nearly five months now," Arya said. "It will be that long by the time we get back."

"Where are we?"

"The end of the world," a new, vaguely familiar voice rumbled, startling Eragon. From the shadows of the Vault, a young man padded forward, his eyes dark and nearly unreadable.

"Raltin," Eragon said, recognizing him. Raltin Morlansson, one of the cave Riders. _Why is he here? _He hadn't been one of the ones to join Eragon's clan, not like Erik and Vé. He had chosen to stay with Ophelia Kindmother in the depths, only showing up at the end of the battle to lend their aid.

_Arya? _After so long, after _death, _touching her mind was new and wild and thrilling, and he couldn't help but grin at her warmth. She responded just as eagerly, letting her thoughts wrap in amongst his own. _Why is he here? _

_Murtagh brought him along, _she explained. _He became the Lead Rider after your sacrifice, and he seemed to think that Raltin would cause less trouble if he was where Murtagh could keep an eye on him. He's actually not a bad sort of man. Just a little rough around the edges. _

That was a distinctly un-Arya thing to say, but Eragon sized the other Rider up and down and decided that if Murtagh trusted him, then he would too.

"Thank you," he said to Raltin seriously, dipping his head. "I am in your debt."

Raltin nodded, an acknowledgement, and kindled a werelight in his palm. "Shall we?" he said dryly. "I'd rather not spend any more time down here, if that's alright with you."

The other two Riders shuddered, nodding in agreement, but Eragon didn't really see what was so bad about this place. Yes, it was cold and more than a little frightening, all deep shadows and pools of ice, but it was strangely beautiful too.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding at what looked like a little flower petal sealed in a block of ice.

Murtagh flicked his eyes over it and looked away sharply. "It's nothing," he said. "Just part of Death's domain."

Eragon raised an eyebrow—he wasn't that gullible, not anymore—but he let it go. He knew, now, that some people needed their secrets, and he trusted Murtagh.

Together, Eragon and his friends began the slow, painful journey back through the Vault of Souls. The going was dark and slow, because Murtagh limped now, heavily on his injured leg.

Eragon's gut churned guilty. He knew why his brother limped. He hadn't been able to pull the lightning out fast enough, and Murtagh was hurt as a result.

The red Rider didn't seem to mind, though. He bore his injury well, leaning on his sword and not making a sound of complaint.

Now _that _was the Murtagh Eragon knew, stubborn and quiet to the bone. He smiled, leaning on his brother lightly. As they walked his strength returned in little bits, the magic returning power to his bones. He found that he didn't need to lean as much, but he liked the feel of Murtagh and Arya on either side of him, solid, steady.

He had missed them.

He hadn't known it, deep down in Death's embrace, but he had _missed _all of them. His friends, his family. Arya. Saphira.

The thought of her sent a jolt of fear thrilling through him, weakening his heart. Where was Saphira? She hadn't died, but that meant that she was alive, somewhere, suffering through a Rider's loss. Was she alright? His dragon was strong, but the strongest lost their minds too, when a Rider died.

Eragon licked his lips, turning to Murtagh. "What happened to Saphira?" he asked, his voice unnaturally hollow in the caverns.

Murtagh cut him an unreadable look, mouth thinning, and limped on.

His heart sank. "Arya? What happened to Saphira?"

Arya's green eyes were soft, softer than he remembered.

"Tell me," he said. "Please. I need to know."

The elf sighed. "She was captured," she said lowly. "Right after you—you fell. She rushed Galbatorix, and Shruikan took her. She was being held in Uru'baen. I don't know where she is now. The others were going to try and rescue her."

Eragon closed his eyes briefly, trying to fight through the wave of grief that roared up inside him. _Saphira, _he thought, with all his might. _Saphira, I'm here. I'm alive. I am alive. I haven't left you yet. _

He didn't know if she could hear him. Probably not, because he couldn't feel her, and Raltin had said that they were at the edge of the world, far away from Alagaesia and all who lived in it.

_Saphira. _

If Galbatorix had hurt her, Eragon would kill him.

"We'll get her back," Arya promised. "What's Galbatorix compared to the god of death?"

"Nothing at all," Murtagh said, eyes forward.

Eragon looked between the two of them and saw that they were genuine. They meant what they said, every word of it, and it made his heart rise again. He blinked rapidly. "I love you," he said, meaning it. "Both of you."

"We know, idiot," Arya chuckled, giving him a wide smile.

Eragon nearly drew back in surprise. Arya was—she was _different _now. In the time since he'd been gone—_dead, _whispered that little voice in his head—she had changed. She had become less cold, he thought. Less closed off. She let him freely into her mind now and smiled for him.

He could chalk that up to her delight at bringing him back, but she felt different too. She felt freer. Older, a little, and more wise.

She felt like she had lived lifetimes in the five months since his death.

Murtagh too was different, in a way that Eragon couldn't pin down. He felt less angry, less wild, and when Eragon carefully brushed against his mind, he opened up and let Eragon in without even flinching.

He felt like he had healed.

_They're so different, _he thought wonderingly, careful to keep it from them. _They've changed. _The thought left him both happy and sad at once. They had grown past their hurts, and banded together to rescue him. They had changed, and he hadn't been there to see it.

But, then, he had changed too, hadn't he? He wasn't the same Eragon who died to save his brother. He knew that now, because he knew his mother's face, he knew his father's love, he knew Morzan's sacrifice. He knew that Arya's father had never wanted to leave her and that Blohdgarm had gone to die for him happily. He knew that Hrothgar did not hold a grudge against his killer and that Faolin only wanted Arya to be happy.

He knew all of these things. They had become a part of him. He was his mother's sacrifice, his father's fierce loyalty. Morzan's will to live and Evandar's love of his people. Blohdgarm's shifting nature and Hrothgar's forgiveness. Faolin's love.

As they made their way towards the light, Eragon found himself smiling.

They had changed. They were more now, all of them. They were more than just Eragon and Arya and Murtagh.

They were Dragon Riders, and he was suddenly overcome with the urge to laugh.

He laughed and laughed, finding his feet again to spin around Arya and Murtagh. He grabbed Arya's hands and pulled her into a wild dance, laughing and singing in the ancient language so that his joy bubbled over and bounced off the tunnel walls.

Arya resisted at first, rolling her eyes affectionately, but even she couldn't resist and she danced with him, her own high, happy song mixing with his.

Murtagh leaned on Zar'roc, shaking his head and smiling, the first full, true smile Eragon had ever seen on his face.

Even Raltin didn't complain and looked calmly on, though his face was dark with something that flitted across his eyes before disappearing.

Eragon didn't pay much mind to it. He was too happy, and joy flowed to his fingertips like magic. "I'm alive!" he sang. "I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive!"

"Idiot," Arya said fondly, her eyes dancing.

The pair of them bounded ahead, spinning around each other like elves drunk at the Blood-Oath Celebration, hands entangled and magic flooding their hands.

Flowers and ivy bloomed up along the walls, coaxed from the dark places by their song. Werelights flickered in and out of existence, lighting their way, brought up by their happiness alone.

"Here," Arya said, stopping their mad dance to point upwards.

Eragon could not see the sky, but she said it was there, and so it was. "The Rock of Kuthain?" he guessed. He remembered Solembum's words from so long ago.

She nodded.

"How do I open it?"

"Speak your name," she said, and for the second time that day he did.

The ceiling overhead let out a mighty, sighing groan and began to shift. The Rock of Kuthain yielded to his name, and a sliver of light spilled into the cave and then grew and grew. Water sloshed underfoot, pushed away by his magic, and more water poured down from above. The River rushed by in a silver waterfall but it had no power over him now.

He let it pass, staring up with hungry eyes as the sliver of sky grew wider and wider.

Eragon saw the sun again. He almost wept at the sight of it. It was beautiful, it was beautiful, and he whispered the words that would take him to it, pulling Arya along with him.

The wind hit is face, warm and sweet, and he did weep. Fat, happy tears beaded at the corners of his eyes and he sloshed into the river, letting its cool waters flow through his fingers.

The light was golden and soft and loving, licking his hair, caressing his face, and he heard birdsong, and a dragon's roar.

Arya's Faolin bounded past in a flash of green, wrapping around her and roaring and whimpering and scolding in dragon.

Eragon let the young one pull Arya away, smiling slightly.

The last time he'd seen Faolin, the dragon had been just a hatchling, a few days out of the shell. He was much bigger now, nearly full-grown.

_Hello, _Eragon said, and the dragon paused in his frantic humming to look over Eragon.

_Hello, _he said, and his voice was light and musical. The green dragon promptly went back to scolding his Rider.

_Eragon! _Thorn came crashing over across the river, tremors rippling his massive crimson body. He nearly knocked Eragon over, nosing and sniffing him all over. _You're alive!_

_Yes, Thorn, _Eragon said fondly, scratching the huge vermillion dragon affectionately. _I am. _

_Where's Murtagh? Is he with you? Is he okay? Is he—_

_I'm fine, you giant lump, _Murtagh said, lifting himself out of the tunnel, and Thorn roared tremendously, surging to scoop up his Rider.

Murtagh vanished to a wall of red scales and Raltin was pulled into a similar embrace by his own dragon.

Watching the others greet their hearts-and-souls made Eragon's heart sink again—_Saphira, Saphira_—but he forced bitterness down. He was alive. Saphira was alive. He would find her again.

_I'm coming, _he sent to her, wherever she was.

Finally, the dragons were done welcoming their Riders—why were they so anxious? Were they cut off from each other in the Vault of Souls?—and pulled back, though Thorn's eyes were wide and betrayed.

"Murtagh?" Eragon said, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Murtagh's icy eyes were rimmed with red. He reached out to Thorn but the dragon flinched away, a whine building in his throat. "It's nothing," the red Rider said through gritted teeth. He sounded as if he was in terrible pain.

_Murtagh? _Eragon reached out with his thoughts, but Murtagh was sealed off here too, a wall of thorn-covered iron.

"Leave them," Arya said gently, coming to stand beside Eragon. She took his hand, reassuringly. "They will be alright."

"What happened? Did Death hurt them? Were they attacked?"

"They will be alright," Arya repeated, more firmly this time. "They've been through a lot recently. Give them their space. If Murtagh wishes to tell you, he will. You won't be able to force it out of him. He's just as stubborn as you are."

Eragon was ashamed at the flash of jealousy that tore at his gut. Arya looked at Murtagh with _respect _now, admiration and friendliness. They had become close, and Eragon had lost five months of his life.

_But you are alive, _he told himself viciously. _You are alive because they love you. Because they chose to come and find you, even if it killed them. _

Arya squeezed his hand again. "It's okay," she whispered. "They're fine, you're fine, we're fine. You came back to us."

He squeezed back, at a loss for what to say. "I always will," he said in the ancient language, without even thinking about it. He said it and it became a promise: he felt the weight of it coiling in his gut, in his chest, anchoring him here, to them, forever.

Arya's eyes were smiling, and the part of Eragon that was also Faolin grew tight. He loved her. He loved her. He loved her so much he ached with it, and it left his hands weak.

"I know," she said.

She turned to the others, one hand tangled in his, the other on Faolin's broad, emerald shoulder. "So," she said, and Raltin emerged from Talon's embrace. Murtagh dropped his hand, stopped reaching for Thorn, and his dragon crouched in the snow.

"So," the red Rider said, a little dully.

"Are you ready to go home?" Arya asked Eragon, meeting his eyes. She carried Brisingr on her back, along with a narrow green sword he recognized as Erisdar, the blade of Ophelia's Rider.

"Yes," Eragon said, letting another smile creep over his face. The wind ruffled his hair and brought with it the smell of the world he loved so much, rich and more than he could ever remember. "Let's go home."

* * *

**~WSS**


	53. Chapter FiftyTwo: A Reunion

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle. All recognizable characters and places belong to Christopher Paolini. Everything else, however, is in fact mine.**

* * *

"When I see you the World stops. It stops and all that exists is you and my eyes staring at you. There's nothing else." –James Frey, _A Million Little Pieces _

* * *

Chapter Fifty-two: A Reunion

* * *

Saphira fell, and the Empire broke and ran. It was a small matter to chase them down now, and Roran let his men do as they pleased.

The Red Guard had taken heavy losses today. They left their brothers strewn from the gates through here, to the great, monstrous temple where Marcus Tabór cowered with his brother and a small regiment of Imperials, sealed safe behind the heavy doors.

"_Again!_" Roran roared, gesturing at the group carrying a piece of the palace—a rather lovely wooden pillar—to signal them forward.

The men bellowed and charged, slamming the pillar into the doors. They rattled, groaning in their hinges, but they did not fall.

Roran bared his teeth.

He was tired and frustrated and heartbroken, and he would kill Tabor for this, he really would.

Galbatorix had taken Saphira and bent her to his will, and now she was probably dead. Brave, beautiful Saphira, the last bit of Eragon left in the world, was probably dead, and it was the Varden who had to kill her.

Roran's heart ached. He felt like he had failed.

"_Again!_"

The door shuddered, bowing backwards, but it still did not fall.

"_Again!"_

"It doesn't matter how many times you hit it," Jensen said, pulling his own horse beside Trumpet. "It will not fall for you."

"It will," Roran snarled through gritted teeth. His shoulders were bunched tightly and the Hound's fang sat heavy in his belt. "It must."

"It will not," the healer said gently. "Those gates are made to withstand a dragon's fury. You fight like a dragon, Roran Stronghammer, but you are not."

Roran growled wordlessly and bellowed, "_again!"_

The door stood, and did not fall.

"Damn it all to hell," he spat, turning away. He was so angry, so hurt, that his hands trembled. "Damn them! Galbatorix, Tabor, damn them, damn them—"

Trumpet whinnied unhappily, nudging Roran. He pushed the horse away. He didn't deserve comfort, not now, not after letting Saphira get herself captured and broken and _killed_—

"It is not your fault, what happened to Saphira," Jensen said. "That is not your burden to bear."

"It is," Roran insisted. "Eragon was family, and family looks out for each other. I didn't. I let her get broken."

"No," said Jensen. "Saphira followed Shruikan of her own free will. Yes, she was grieving, and yes, she was out of her mind, but you are just a man. What can you do against a furious dragon?"

"I could have—"

"Roran," the healer said gently, resting his hand on Roran's shoulder. "Don't torture yourself. Saphira's fall was not your fault. It was Galbatorix's. Don't rip yourself to pieces. Instead, punish the ones responsible."

Roran bared his teeth and hatred like ice crept into his bones. His fingers itched for the Hound's fang hanging in his belt. "I will," he said darkly. "Starting with Tabor."

The men of the Red Guard drew back again, looking to him for orders.

"Again," he said quietly, and they slammed at the doors, making them quake and tremble.

"Allow me," someone sang in a liquid, lilting voice, and hissed a word. The door bowed inwards as if struck by a great force, groaning and whimpering in on itself. The newcomer sang another word and it crumpled like paper, and she hummed a third and it collapsed to dust.

"Thanks," Roran said, looking the stranger up and down.

She was an elf dressed in magnificent armor, her raven-dark hair pulled back to reveal pointed ears and slanting emerald eyes, a firm-set mouth and an elegant throat. Golden leaves were traced delicately onto her armor and she wore an emerald cape lined with snow-white feathers. She carried a quiver full of arrows fletched by those same feathers and a thin, shining sword. Blood splatters marred her golden greaves and sharp features, and she bled freely from a gash above her eye.

Trumpet nickered uncertainly.

"Well?" said the warrior-elf, her eyebrows arched in a terribly familiar way. "Aren't you going in?"

Roran blinked and shook himself vigorously. "Forward!" he bellowed, mounting Trumpet in one swift movement and charging up the stone steps, through the open door and into the depths of the temple.

Everything inside was dark and shadow, and even the Red Guard, who had faced nightmares and Hounds, faltered at his heels.

But the elf-woman came in behind them and threw up emerald flames, bathing the dank place in wavering light, and Roran led them on.

The temple seemed to be divided much as the city was. There was an empty, cold front section, the stones the color of rust and old blood. Here was where the poor worshipped, no doubt, and offered their blood for a few scraps of bread. Farther in there were wooden seats and more blood, then a series of rooms with beds.

Finally, in the very center, there was a great hall, inlaid with gold, and a looming, menacing altar. The pews had been turned on their sides to form walls, piled high on top of each other, and the gaps bristled with swords and the tips of arrows.

"Take cover!" Roran bellowed, spurring Trumpet to the side, behind a massive, misshapen statue.

The Red Guard took warning and vanished back down the tunnels as a volley of arrows clattered harmlessly off the stone walls.

"Sir!" a man called. "Should we retreat?"

"No," Roran thundered back. "We have come too far." Tabor was here. He knew it. There was nowhere else for the coward governor to run. He had to be here somewhere, and the only way to end the siege—and avenge Saphira's fall—was to kill him.

"Orders?"

"Yes, General, orders?" the elf-woman asked, in a smooth, slightly amused tone. She seemed to be mocking him, and his lip curled faintly.

"Elf," he barked. "Do you have a bow?"

"I do," she answered.

"Are there any other archers among us?"

"Aye," a few different voices rang out. "We are archers, but we don't have any arrows."

"Come and take some of these," Roran instructed, kicking some of the stray arrows back into the hallway. "Elf, do you know the fire spell?"

"What kind of fire?" she asked, her voice still amused.

"The kind that burns, and won't be easily put out." Roran knew that the Empire's men could hear him and were probably making their own plans, and also that there were probably mages among the gathered. But he had a plan.

"I know of a spell."

"Then use it," he said. "Set the arrows on fire, as they fly, if you can. They won't be able to put enough out in time."

_You mean to weaken their barricade, _the elf-woman said to his mind.

_Yes. _

"Is that wise?" she asked aloud, her tone still amused and slightly mocking. He bared his teeth in her general direction. _Manners, little wolf. I mean you no harm. _"Setting this place aflame?"

"The temple itself is stone," Roran said. "Their barricade will burn, but the rest of it will hold."

"Fair enough. On your mark, then, General Stronghammer."

_She knows of me. _"Archers ready," Roran said, and he could hear Tabor's men desperately readying their own counterattack, but the Varden wasn't a target they could hit. "Archers aim!"

He took a deep breath and dared to peek behind the statue. The Empire had withdrawn all of its arrows and there was a magician chanting in a high, frightened voice.

"Fire!"

The archers dove from their cover, loosing four arrows. The elf shouted a word and they caught flame, flashing a sickly, pale green, and slammed into the wooden barricade.

Two of the fires went out, extinguished by magic, but Roran raised his hand and shouted for another volley, and then another.

The Empire fired back now, but the elf sent their arrows away. Fire spread, eating away at the barricade.

Roran took another deep breath, and raised his hammer, calling for a charge, but as he was about to cry "Forward!" the Empire's men began to scream.

The ring of swords filled the hot air, and war cries rose from behind the barricade.

_What's happening? _

Through the gaps, Roran saw flashes of armor and cloth, swords sparking off of each other.

_Has the Empire started fighting itself?_

"Forward!" he bellowed, and Trumpet bugled a war cry, hooves churning in the air. The Red Guard rallied and surged behind him, and they crossed the distance to the barricade in a matter of seconds.

"Ware!" the elf cried, and threw up a spell.

The barricade collapsed, chunks of burning wood falling towards the Red Guard, spurred by someone small tackling Marcus Tabor through the pews—

The elf's spell shoved all the pews aside, out of the way, and Roran brought Trumpet to a halt, his mouth falling open and his heart leaping, twisting inside his chest.

For there, crouched on top of Marcus Tabor with a dagger held at his throat, was Katrina.

* * *

"Roran," she breathed. She couldn't move, couldn't run to him, couldn't do anything but press her blade closer to Marcus Tabor's neck—he made a gurgling sound, the coward—and stare.

He looked magnificent.

Her husband sat astride an inky black warhorse, hammer firm in his grip. He wore a soldier's armor and his eyes flashed, and from his belt hung a long, sharp silver tooth.

But Katrina could care less about all these trappings of war. Beneath the General's stern, fierce face, she saw her Roran. She saw the sweet, passionate young man who had begun to court her all those years ago, in secret because her father didn't approve. She saw the man who had rallied her village and led them through the wilderness, the man who loved his cousin so much he forgave the death of his father.

She saw the father of her own child, and the sight of him now was as sweet as it had ever been.

She smiled. "Roran," she teased. "A little late, are we?"

"Katrina," he choked, and stumbled off his warhorse. He staggered towards her and lifted her up, swept her into his arms.

He smelled like battle, all blood and sweat and smoke, and she hugged him back just as fiercely, aware that she didn't smell any better.

Roran pulled back, ran a thumb down her grimy face. He smiled so radiantly it made her heart kick. "Katrina," he breathed reverently. "You're alive."

"As are you," she said warmly, cupping his own cheek. "Reunions later, dearest. We have a siege to win."

Roran smiled viciously, kissing her cheek, and lunged past her into the fray, hammer raised.

The rest of his men—Imperials? They were wearing a Guard's colors, but they fought at his side—leaped after him and even that warhorse entered the fight, trumpeting a challenge and crushing all who came at him.

Katrina's own people, led by Merida, surged around them, and between them they had defeated the Empire in less than five minutes.

She laid her foot on Marcus Tabor's heaving chest, and smiled.

"Governor," she said. "I think it would be wise to surrender now."

"Not to _you,_" he spat, reaching up for her. She pointed her dagger between his eyes. He stilled.

"To me," she said sweetly. "And then to my husband, and then to our Lady."

"Peasants," Tabor snarled. "Heathen scum, traitors to the Empire!"

"Coward," she returned, not at all bothered. "Now yield." She bore down with her foot, persuading him none too gently.

"Fine!" he finally gasped. "I yield! I yield!"

"Tabor is finished!" Katrina bellowed, and the River cheered, stamping their dirty feet. Roran's people took up the roar and the temple shook with it.

Even the elf-woman, who stood apart and aloof, looked pleased. "Quite the wife you have there, Stronghammer," she said dryly.

Roran broke from his celebration to come stand beside Katrina, wrapping an arm around her waist as he glared at Tabor.

"You're alive," he murmured into her hair.

Some of his men came and bound Tabor, hauling him away.

"You're alive," she whispered against his neck.

She loved the smell of him, the feel of his warm hands on her back.

"I missed you," she said.

"I missed you too." Roran pulled away, looked her up and down. He laid his hands on her belly, and her little one kicked, sensing his or her father. "Why did you chose to fight? You're with child."

There was a slight accusation in his voice that made her bristle, but Katrina understood. She hadn't wanted to harm her unborn child either.

"I chose to fight," she said slowly, "because I could not bear the thought of my son or daughter growing up in a world still ruled by Galbatorix. I want them to be born into a free world, a world where they don't have to fear that their father is going to be taken or their uncles will be slain."

"But what if you had been killed? Or our child?"

She cupped his cheek, smiling gently. Her Roran was a warrior, that much was true. He was a leader and very brave man, but he was not a mother. He didn't understand.

"A mother's sacrifice," she said. "I will not have my children grow up in a world such as this."

"You would rather them die?"

"Yes," she said, "I would, rather than have them taken from me, or one of us from them."

Roran blinked and drew back a little, his eyes confused and hurt.

She sighed. "It sounds cruel," she allowed. "Heartless, even. But know that I do it out of love, and that I want this child. I want it. But I will not allow him to grow up like we did. I won't let him grow up in fear."

"A mother's love is a strange thing," the elf-woman offered, padding past them. "And not often understood by men. But know that your wife speaks the truth. Her choice to fight was made out of love."

Katrina blinked her thanks. "Are you a mother too?" she asked.

The elf's expressionless face flickered for a moment. "I was," she said.

"Son or daughter?"

"Daughter," said the elf. She turned away. "She is lost to me now. War is a heartless thing, General Stronghammer. Do not fault your wife for wishing peace on your child."

Roran stayed quiet, but his hand found Katrina's. He squeezed once, comforting, and nodded to the elf.

She offered him a crooked smile, touched her forehead, and glided back into the depths of the tunnel. The emerald lights stayed for a moment, until she was out of sight, and then they winked out, plunging the whole place into gloom.

"To think that people worship here," Katrina said, looking around with a shudder. The temple was menacing still, even with all its power stolen away.

Roran nodded. "Nasuada will have it torn down, I expect. Or she'll turn it into something else."

"Does she want to be Queen, once this war is over?" Merida came to Katrina's side, looking Roran up and down with a critical eye.

Roran blinked, startled. "I don't know," he said. "No one's given what comes after much thought. I just assumed that the Riders would take over."

"Because that worked so well the first time," Merida said, turning on her heel. "We'll come find you, Katrina Riverfriend. Don't leave the city."

It wasn't a threat, not to Katrina, but Roran bristled and took a step forward.

Merida arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"It's alright, love," Katrina soothed, and let her friend slip away. "She means no harm. She's a friend."

"What did she call you?" he asked, watching Merida go. Only when she was out of sight did he relax his grip on his hammer. "Riverfriend?"

"There's a group of slaves in the city that call themselves the River," she explained. "I don't know why, but they're the ones who found me, and led an uprising today."

"A slave rebellion?"

"Aye. Can you spread the word that they're not to be killed? I don't think they would attack the Varden, but just in case."

Roran nodded, beckoning to a young man in Imperial armor. "Get word to the Varden," he ordered. "Anyone not in Imperial armor is not to be harmed. They're slaves, rebelling against the Empire to help us take the city."

The young man bowed and rushed out after the elf-woman.

"How did you get your hands on the Empire's armor?" she asked curiously, leaning into him.

Roran smiled and pulled her tighter. "Interesting story, that one," he said.

She smiled back. "We have all the time in the world now," she said. "Why don't you tell it to me?"

And he did.

* * *

**Next update in a few days, barring any complications.**

**~WSS**


	54. Chapter Fiftythree: Morlan's Son

**Sorry about the wait. Fighting some serious real life issues right now.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inheritance Cycle, but at this point it's so not canon it barely even matters.**

* * *

"Our envy of others devours us most of all." –Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

* * *

Chapter Fifty-three: Morlan's Son

* * *

An uneasy quiet had fallen over the ragged group of Riders. The easy camaraderie of the journey here was long gone, killed and buried down in the Vault of Souls. They traveled in uncomfortable silence now, the only sound wingbeats and dragons' sighs.

_It's all his fault, _Raltin thought rebelliously, eying Eragon Shadeslayer. _We were all fine until we got ahold of him again. _

_Peace, _Talon rumbled, looking back with one great dark eye. _This was always the end to the journey. We knew it. _

_Doesn't mean I have to like it, _Raltin thought.

He had actually begun to enjoy Arya and Murtagh, since they had passed the Lake of Mirrors. They were his friends now. They—even Murtagh—trusted him, and looked to him for advice and strength in battle.

It was a good feeling.

Before the cave, he had been too young and too angry to make solid friends. In the caves, he had been aloof and bitter. And during his time with the Varden, he had been even more aloof and bitter, because the son of Morzan controlled his every move. But on the journey here, something had changed.

_I've started to like them, _he realized. And he had. They had traded stories by the fire, fought together, feared together, faced down Death together. They were his _friends, _and now that Eragon was back, they weren't even giving him a second glance.

Jealousy swelled in his heart, and though he tried to hide it from Talon, he could not hide it from The Other.

_Poor little creature, _The Other laughed, slipping in amongst his thoughts. _You are positively green with envy. What would your father say?_

_Leave me alone, _Raltin said, trying to ignore the voice. He didn't know what The Other was. A spirit, probably, one of the many mysterious and powerful beings in this half of the world, but he knew that it was the same voice that had found him at the Lake of Mirrors and called him back, saving his life.

The Other had been with him ever since.

The Other came in dreams, sometimes, wrapped in mist and shade. He lived in the dark corners of Raltin's mind, feeding of the things buried there. He sang songs of murder and vengeance, whispered words of hatred, of disgust.

_They weren't really your friends, _The Other said. _How could they be? They are liars and traitors the lot of them. _

_You're wrong, _Raltin said.

_Am I? Look at them. The elf betrayed her people. She was forbidden to go on this journey by her Queen, and yet she came anyway. She can't be trusted if she can't even obey her own mother. And Murtagh, Murtagh! How many times has he turned on his _allies? _First the Empire, then the Varden, and then the Empire again! If he follows this pattern, you're next, you know._

_Stop it, _Raltin hissed.

_Why should I? I'm just saying what you know._

_You're twisting it, _he thought viciously. _You're trying to turn me against them._

_Turn you against them? Oh no, my dear boy, not at all. I'm trying to save you from them. _

_Save me? _Raltin faltered.

_Of course! _

_Why? _

_Because I see everything, _The Other said conspiratorially. _Because I am that little whisper of envy you feel in your heart, I am that waver of uncertainty. I am the voice that calls your name at night, making the hairs on your neck stand up. _

_I see them when you do not, when you turn away to hear my voice. I see their fear, and their dislike. They don't trust you, Raltin. They think you are planning to betray them._

_I am not!_

_I know that, _The Other purred, _but they don't. Imagine how it must look to them. You are quiet. You are withdrawn. You look into the distance at things they can't see, you listen to voices they can't hear. You've already threatened Murtagh once. I don't imagine that he's forgotten it. _

_You're lying, _said Raltin, but he'd noticed those things too. He had noticed how Murtagh didn't always look him in the eye, how he tightened his hand on Zar'roc now and then. He'd seen how Arya always watched him, warily, like he was a wild animal preparing to pounce.

His heart hurt.

_They're my friends, _he said, trying to make himself believe it. _They're my friends, they wouldn't hurt me. _

_You think they're your friends? _The Other laughed. _Tell me, child, why did they even bring you along in the first place? You're not the fastest Rider, or the smartest, or the strongest, or the most skilled. What can you do that an elf could not? That Morzan's son could not? That Erik or Vé or Lovissa could not?_

Raltin tried to ignore the voice. _Not real, _he chanted to himself. _Not real, not real, not real._

_Real, _The Other countered. _Why did they bring you on this journey? Not because they _needed _you, but because Murtagh could not trust you on your own. He thought you were too dangerous to be left with the others. He brought you along to keep an eye on you, like a badly-behaved dog. _

_You're _lying!

But The Other was telling the truth, Raltin knew he was. The Other knew everything—The Other was everywhere.

_Am I? _asked The Other sweetly. _Look into your heart. You know it to be true. _

_Lying! _Raltin cried, and it was in a high, keening wail of despair. Beneath him, Talon shifted, his eyes clouding, blurring, going dim. The young Rider was so distressed that he did not notice the magic creeping over him, heavy and dark.

_I am not, _said The Other. _Face it, Raltin. I am your only friend. I'm the only one who's been there for you since your father died. I am the only one who loves you._

_Talon….?_

_Not even he, _laughed the voice. _Why would he? He hatched for you, but you are nothing like he needs. He doesn't need a failure like you. A dragon like Talon needs a glorious Rider, one who is every inch as fierce as he is. And what are you? A weakling, too cowardly to even avenge his father's murder! _

_Stop it!_

_Never, _hissed The Other. _I will never stop, not until you open your eyes and see what is true! _

_You're lying to me, _Raltin moaned, not noticing the ice that was creeping into his heart, splinters driven by magic and his own insecurities. Talon was already lost, his mind blanketed under the fog of The Other's spell and his own Rider's grief.

The great indigo dragon twitched, fire rising in his belly that he had no control over.

_Am I? _said The Other again, tenderly, his voice laced with false concern. The strength of the spell grew, pulling Raltin under. _Perhaps we should test my theory, mm? _

Raltin wasn't aware of his own hands moving, a spell forming at his lips. He wasn't aware of the rising tide of his own power, swelling beyond his control, or the way every muscle in Talon's neck went taught, ready to spit fire.

He wasn't aware of anything at all but the sudden sharp, outraged cry, and Murtagh spinning to throw fire at him without pause.

_No! _he cried, because he did not see the fire his own hands cast or the way Talon's teeth were bared in a challenge, aimed for Eragon's head. _No, no! _

_You see, _said The Other, _they don't love you. They want to kill you. _

Arya turned on Raltin too, her own magic screaming past his ears. She drew blood with air sharper than a knife, red beading and dripping down his face

_No, _Raltin cried, a hollow, cracked sound, and The Other's spell rose up, and swallowed him whole.

There was something wrong with Raltin.

It was hard to notice at first, because Raltin was difficult to read normally, but the harder Arya looked, the more obvious it became.

Something was wrong with him.

Arya usually didn't pay much attention to the indigo Rider. After the lake, his harsh, threatening edge had faded as he accepted them as companions and clan-mates, and she had even begun to enjoy his stories around the campfire and his dry, biting wit whenever he and Murtagh dissolved into a friendly argument.

He would have been a good elf, she thought. Passion ran deep within him, as it did with all elves, though he rarely showed it. He had a great respect for the natural world and a fascination for magic. He seemed highly skeptical of things Murtagh believed easily, and searched for spirits to speak with.

He was _interesting. _

But now, after nearly a month, the hard, sharp edge was back, sliding against the reaches of Arya's awareness like a sour note, black magic or blood in the water.

It made her uncomfortable.

And now, with Eragon—_Eragon, _who was dead and is now alive again, warm and real and curled in her thoughts sleepily—pressed against her back, she was twice as aware of danger, and Raltin felt dangerous.

She watched his face and saw the anguish in his eyes, the despair that grew and grew until something that felt like Galbatorix slipped into them and killed the light. She saw his face slacken, and his hand curl into a fist around his sword.

She saw magic begin in his fingertips, and fire in his dragon's jaws.

_Murtagh! _she shouted, and threw up a shield without even thinking.

A percussive spell crashed against the shield a split second later, cracking the air, and Faolin bellowed, startled.

_Get down! _Arya urged her dragon, and to Eragon she said, _Hang on. _

Faolin rolled, corkscrewing above Talon, who surged forward, forcing his thick-set body through the shield and after her smaller dragon, blasting a jet of dark fire and clawing at Faolin's tail.

_Murtagh! What's happening?_

_I don't know, _the red Rider said grimly, as Thorn roared in fury and descended on Talon with his claws outstretched.

Thorn dug into the smaller dragon's hindquarters, bearing down on Raltin furiously, trying to pin them in place.

Talon struggled, roaring, and turned his fire on Murtagh. Raltin added his own spell, a punch of compressed air that Murtagh had to throw up a shield to deflect, losing the spell on his own lips.

_Raltin! _the older Rider shouted. _My brother! What are you doing?_

Raltin's thoughts were seething, a mess that Arya couldn't identify, black magic and hurt and wild fury, directed into magic and an anger that roared and tore holes in Arya's mind. She recoiled, sensing sickness, and called to her own magic.

_What's happening? _Eragon asked, rousing from his half-sleep and casting his own mind out. _Why is he attacking us?_

_I don't know, _Arya said, the anger at Raltin's sudden betrayal overtaking her friendship with the man. She threw a fire spell, green light flashing, that singed Raltin's hands and Talon's hands, but neither dragon nor Rider slowed down, turning with claw and sword outstretched to fight with Murtagh.

Murtagh drew Zar'roc in a fluid movement, the scarred blade screaming, and called for lightning. The sword buzzed, slicing easily through dragonflesh, splattering blood onto the ground below.

_Raltin! Stop this! _Murtagh boomed, his thoughts white-hot with fury, and Thorn roared, fire cooking in his throat.

Raltin bared his teeth, entirely inhuman, and brought his sword crashing down to meet Zar'roc. Talon howled his own challenge, and the dragons dueled fiercely, tooth and claw and fire. Thorn's maimed tail thrashed, battering Talon's chest, and the long, long fangs for which he was named flashed. He tried again and again to get those teeth into Talon's shoulders, trying desperately to slow his wing-brother down without killing him.

Murtagh, too, was trying to avoid fatal blows. He lashed out with Zar'roc expertly when he could, deflecting Raltin's own blade and drawing thin, painful cuts at Raltin's shoulders and elbows, attempting to cause enough pain so that Raltin _stopped. _

The indigo Rider showed no signs of stopping. He and his dragon both pushed through the pain with inhuman focus, almost as if they couldn't feel it. Every cut Murtagh drew was ignored—Raltin simply swung harder. And every time Thorn landed a blow or a bite, Talon bit and scratched and blew fire back, forcing Thorn to let go and dodge or risk serious injury.

The two rolled over and over again, swords clashing and dragons slamming into each other with mountain-moving force, and Arya threw in magic where she could, aiming fire and sending healing to her clan-mates.

_Can you two immobilize him? _Eragon asked, his eyes serious and his intent heavy. _Between the two of you, can you hold him?_

_Yes, _said Arya.

_Aye, _Murtagh agreed, voice tense in concentration. _Give me a moment to put some distance between us. _

Thorn rolled, sweeping his wings up to gain valuable height over Talon. He kept rising, avoiding Talon at every turn, and managed to cut a sharp corner, swinging his massive bulk around and putting a hundred feet of space between himself and the darker, smaller dragon.

_Now, _Eragon said, and Arya and Murtagh shouted the spell in unison, casting their combined power over Raltin and Talon like a net.

It was harder than she would have expected. Murtagh had immobilized the pair by himself before, and held them like that, and she had more magic than he. It shouldn't be as difficult as it was to hold them, but they fought, seeking a purchase in the spell.

_Something's wrong, _Murtagh said tightly. Beads of sweat appeared at his temples and he breathed heavily, holding the spell with effort. _He's stronger than he should be. His magic is wrong._

Now that Raltin was suspended in the air, unable to move more than a few inches in any direction, Arya could see him clearly, and she understood what Murtagh meant.

There was something deeply, deeply wrong with him. Something had happened to him, in his heart, his mind. Arya could feel it living there like cold fingers, hard and unyielding.

_He's magicked, _Eragon said, his brow furrowed. _He's under a spell. _

_Galbatorix's? _Arya asked, her blood chilling. Could the Black King really reach them out here? Did his reach really extend that far? Did he know, now, that Eragon was alive again, than his greatest triumph was undone?

Arya hoped he knew. She hoped that he knew and that he was _afraid. _That he was shivering in terror, in horror, because Eragon was alive and the Dragon Riders were coming for him.

_No, _Murtagh said, teeth bared in an effort to hold the spell. _No, it's someone else. _

Eragon frowned, and Arya could feel him shifting deeper, searching the depths of Raltin's mind. _He's still in there, _the blue Rider said. _Raltin is still there, but he's—he's angry. He thinks that you've betrayed him. He keeps calling for someone called The Other. _

_A spirit, maybe? _Murtagh said. _We were warned that we might attract spirits, and not all of them kind ones. We learned that at the Lake of Mirrors. _

_Why just Raltin, though? _Arya murmured. _Why did they chose him?_

_Because he is weakened by his hatred, _Eragon said softly. _I can feel it. He still carries the hurts of his past. This Other found an opening. _

_I can understand that, _Murtagh said, and for a moment his thoughts flashed to fire, and bright eyes and teeth and a terrible voice inside himself. Eragon recognized this voice and shuddered. _So what do we do? Kill him?_

_No, _Eragon said forcefully. _We just have to break the spell. _

_How? _Arya asked. _You've said it yourself, he has a weakness in him. One that the spirits or whomever so desires can use against him, can turn into a weapon. Do we really want an ally like that? You both _know _Galbatorix, and what he does. He'll smell Raltin's weakness and turn him against us in a heartbeat. _

Thorn, bleeding heavily from a wound near his throat, growled thinly. He agreed with Arya.

Faolin whined. _But they're our friends, _he said. _Our wing-brothers. We trust them. _

_Can we? _Murtagh said, bitterly. Arya felt betrayal coil in his heart, hard and heavy. She echoed the feeling. _I know it's a spirit controlling him, but he had to have that thought in his heart to begin with. He had to have that jealousy, that hatred, otherwise that wouldn't have been a weakness. He's already said that he hates me. He's threatened my life before. _

_Everyone deserves a second chance, _Eragon said stubbornly. _Raltin is not himself. He's proven his intentions, hasn't he? He could have killed you both on the journey, but he chose not to. He chose to trust you. _

_And now he's trying to kill us, _Arya pointed out.

_We can break the spell, _Eragon repeated, unyieldingly. _He came here. He helped you rescue me. I can't repay him by taking his life. _

_It wouldn't have to hurt, _Murtagh said gently. _We can make it painless. We can make it easy for them. _

_So this is the price for his help? _Eragon said. _This is how we thank him? _

_I could make it hurt, _Murtagh snapped. _I could make it hurt like a traitor's death should hurt. I could make it slow, and excruciating, as our punishments have been slow and excruciating. _

Thorn snarled in agreement, and Faolin made a distressed sound.

_It's alright, my little one, _Arya soothed him tiredly. _This is the way of the world. _

_I don't like it, _her dragon said.

_Few do. _

Unhappiness bubbled from Eragon, coupled with memories of gray, gray Death and what he learned there. _You were a traitor once too, _he pointed out. _And the Varden could have slain you when you returned to them, but they did not. Galbatorix, even, could have killed you, and he chose not to. If the Black King can show a mercy, however cruel, can't you?_

_That's not fair, _Murtagh snarled, but he was giving in, Arya could feel it. She looked at Eragon with new eyes. When had he gotten so persuasive?

_Everyone deserves a second chance, _the man said firmly. _We can break the spell, and bring Raltin to our side. The Other lied to him, and used what he feared against him. We shouldn't punish him for it. _

Arya felt Murtagh relent, and cursed. _Very well, _she agreed reluctantly. _But I am going to place restrictions on his magic, until we're sure we can trust him again. This I will not bend on. _

_I agree with Arya, _Murtagh added staunchly. She almost smiled. It seemed that she had earned a loyal supporter. Strange, how things like that happened. Three months ago, she entertained dreams of killing the red Rider. _We let him live, but not without precautions. _

_That seems fair, _Eragon agreed. _How do you want to go about this?_

_Layer by layer, _Murtagh suggested. _We pull this Other out wherever we find him. _

_Very well, _Eragon said. _Can you hold him?_

_All day, if we must, _Arya said, and Murtagh echoed her fierce declaration. They redoubled their efforts, tightening their grip on the shimmering spell even as Raltin and Talon fought harder, straining against them.

Eragon set to work. Slowly he began to work through Raltin's mind, his lips forming the words to break barriers, to snap bonds. Raltin's face gradually grayed, and some of the violence in his eyes went out. The black, strong fingers in his mind fought for a purchase and were carefully driven back.

_Raltin, _Eragon called strongly, casting the full weight of his power behind it. _Raltin, come back! _

The indigo Rider's eyes widened, and Talon's struggles ceased. They hung limply in the combined spell, breath coming rapidly, and Arya felt the weight of memories—a village burning down, the death of parents, the oath in the wilderness, _father, father, I will avenge you_, the hatred towards Murtagh, who came like a hero when he was nothing more than the bastard son of a monster—tearing at Raltin, trying to blot out the good things, Talon's hatching, the acceptance of the other Riders, the stories around the fire and Murtagh's easy affection, once you knew that his surliness was little more than an act.

_No, _Arya said, and added her own memories to Eragon's work. She slipped in her amusement at Raltin's dry humor, his exasperation with Thorn's childishness, his secret fondness for the way Faolin loved to fly. She showed him her respect for him, for snapping his Rider-bond without pause for a man he barely knew and didn't love. She gave him her belief that he could be a good man.

She prayed.

Raltin stirred. _Help me, _he said, he cried, his mind alight with fear, and then the dark fingers became a roaring maw, The Other screaming in fury, and a sudden flare of power—more than one spirit, then, there were at least two, and something that felt terribly like a trapped Eldunarí—shattered Arya and Murtagh's spell, and Talon, screaming like his heart was being torn out, raced into the sky faster than they could catch him again.

Murtagh swore violently. Arya echoed his sentiment. _What are we going to do? _she snarled.

_Chase him, of course, _Eragon said, a fury shining in his dark eyes. His mind boiled.

Murtagh paused. _Was it just me, _he said slowly, _or did The Other feel an awful lot like Tariku?_

* * *

**Next bit soon, hopefully.**

**~WSS**_  
_


End file.
